Darkness I Became
by Le Creationist
Summary: Gordon/OC. "He pictured her sitting alone by the windows, watching as even the sun deserted her." TDKR retold.
1. Let us go then, You and I

**Darkness I Became**

"_And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat_

_I tried to find the sound._

_But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness_

_So darkness I became."_

Cosmic Love by Florence + the Machine

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any of the other characters, this is purely for fun and no money is being made. Copyright infringement is not intended. The fic title and opening lyrics are Florence + the Machine.

* * *

It was an unprecedented time in Gotham, Jim Gordon thought to himself. Nearly eight years of tranquility after such an expanse of violence was surreal, and for the first time the trees that lined the streets and filled the parks seemed to blossom. The faint aroma was carried through the city by the wind, through the parks, over the somber facades of buildings, and out to the ocean. The most the police force has had to deal with these days were minor civil disputes, a few cases of shoplifting here and there, the occasional vandal—nothing that required heavily armed SWAT teams or the assistance of a certain masked crusader.

Gordon was thankful of course that his office wasn't scrambling around in constant tension and fear to the extent that they all were during the days of the Joker, though at times he did wish there was more to keep them busy.

He'd sold the house after Barbara and the kids left for Cleveland for a surprisingly good price—the dramatic drop in crime did marvels for Gotham's housing market. His current residence was a non-descript brownstone about a twenty minute walk away from GCPD headquarters. It remained rather empty, save for the essential furniture and half unpacked moving boxes. It was definitely a place he endeavored to spend as little time in as possible.

It didn't take long before the divorce papers arrived in the mail. His faked death was the straw that broke the camel's back. She could never completely forgive him for putting their children in danger. It was in Barbara's eyes each time he looked at her, a thousand accusations and the years of her life she'd given to him. Countless times he tried to apologize in many different ways—a lingering touch on her shoulder, a meaningful glance. Words were never so useless when he trusted her to understand him. The moral implications of his complicity in the cover-up of Harvey Dent's crimes tormented him. Barb would tolerate none of it. She had every right to, he reflected with a heavy heart.

So when he discovered the papers in his mail with a request for sole custody of their son and daughter, it was akin to the twisting of a long-forgotten knife wedged between his ribs. Those damned papers came with a simple note, asking him to sign here and there, to release his wife from their toxic union. Their assets would be divided equally between them. He wouldn't fight her on that front, as his salary as a commissioner was more than enough to live on. He'd make sure his kids were provided for in every way. He couldn't remember anything else from that night. Only that he'd stood there, with the manila envelope in his hand in the darkness of his kitchen, for hours.

Was it possible to grieve for people who were alive? It must have been, since the feeling resurged anew every time he realized he was getting used to the silence, to being alone. He'd taken to working so late that he'd fall asleep in his office, and routinely kept a spare change of clothes in the meager closet so that everyone in the MCU would be none the wiser.

The days passed, slowly, painfully at first. He fell into a routine that was at once familiar and alien to him. Step one: wake up before the sun rose. Step two: get in some exercise whether it was boxing with the beat-up bag he kept in the spare room or a good old-fashioned run around his neighborhood. Step three: breakfast then off to work. Work occupied his time as he couldn't have allowed it to do when he had his family—actually, that wasn't quite right. He simply had no reason to feel guilty about spending so much time doing police work.

The notoriously backlogged departments of GCPD were able to get through their case loads with far less difficulty now. Major Crimes' work was practically a cakewalk after the arrests and convictions of roughly a thousand criminals courtesy of the Harvey Dent Act. Without the chance for parole, GCPD didn't have to play whack-a-mole with the mafia anymore so to speak. What was impossible before became feasible, what was feasible was accomplished, and Gotham almost instantaneously enjoyed lower crime rates all across the board.

There was a running joke that MCU's title should be changed to "Petty Crimes Unit."

What he hated most was the social scene he was expected to frequent. The annual commemoration of Harvey Dent's heroism always left a bitter taste in his mouth, every time he came so close to pulling out his speech to finally bring the truth to light and every time he decided that Gotham was not ready. He really meant it, on some level, but on his darker days he silently fumed at himself for his cowardice, his selfishness, his utter paralysis that halted the words that wanted to escape him.

"Boss! The Sforza case is escalating and you should—" A voice cut into Gordon's thoughts abruptly, "—definitely talk to the husband. It's getting out of hand, I mean talk about a _mountain_ out of a molehill—"

It was Gordon's newest hire, a young cop called John Blake who'd burst into the Commissioner's quiet office. Although momentarily startled, Gordon was grateful for the interruption before his thoughts turned truly maudlin.

"Was anyone hurt?"

"No—"

"Was anything stolen?"

"Only some of the wife's jewelry."

"Then what's the problem?"

Blake looked slightly impatient but hid it well.

"The husband is accusing GCPD of conspiring with her to stage a break-in at their home. He's not here in Gotham, he's travelling abroad but the wife is here. You know these people," Blake's voice took on a slightly disdainful tone, "There's nothing like the circus for the high and mighty society hacks."

At this, Gordon finally sat up in his chair.

"We don't make personal judgments here, Blake. We investigate to the fullest extent of the law and bring those who've violated it to justice, nothing more, nothing less. Understood?" The commissioner asked sharply.

"Yes, sir."

"Now, I assume the appropriate task force has been assigned to this?"

"Yeah Crowe and Davies are in charge and forensics is analyzing the evidence that's been found. The place was smashed up pretty good, there's bound to be prints somewhere." The young officer replied somberly.

"Alright, then. In the meantime, I'm going to pay a visit to Mrs. Sforza to hopefully smooth things over. There's no sense in us angering Gotham's richest benefactress."

* * *

The trip to the Sforza townhouse allowed Gordon to mentally review the particulars of this case, as he preferred to take the subway and walk rather than a police car. His role as commissioner although earned through difficult circumstances, had been far easier than his duties as an officer as he found himself acting as a liaison between the city's political elite and the police force. He had become the MCU's organizational head and the mayor's confidante.

Giulia Sforza was the wife of enormously successful investment manager at Gotham General Bank & Trust, Alessandro Sforza. They were European emigrants who had lived in Gotham for the better part of a decade. Mrs. Sforza was a part-time lecturer at Gotham State University but before that was a principal dancer at the Gotham Conservatory of Dance though it was clear to all who knew her that she didn't need to work. Born into an aristocratic Milanese family, she inherited her family's wealth upon her father's death when she was twenty three years old. The Sforzas were therefore exorbitantly wealthy, their combined net worth reaching nearly fifteen billion dollars.

About a week ago there had been a break-in at her husband's penthouse apartment in the Gotham State Building. The police were called in by the alarm system that had been set off by the burglars. All of the important things were more or less accounted for, as most legal documents and other such valuables were kept in an airtight safe, but most of her fine jewelry that had been lying in a mahogany wood chest in her armoire was gone. The rest of the place had been demolished, broken glass covering the wood floors in a parody of spilled diamonds.

GCPD looked into it at her request and almost immediately received an irate phone call from Alessandro Sforza. The man somehow believed that his wife hired thugs to break in and smash the place up and was using the city's police force to cover her tracks. When asked why he believed it to be so, he angrily retorted that his wife's goal was to inflict revenge upon him for leaving her behind while he traveled to the Mediterranean for vacation. The couple did not reside together in Gotham; he stayed in the penthouse while she maintained a townhouse overlooking the river in the Upper Westside.

It was not a great mystery that for all his fair looks and impressive lineage, Mr. Sforza was a philandering pig. Gordon didn't indulge in such gossip but it didn't mean he was blind to it—Sforza had become to the newspapers and tabloids what Bruce Wayne once was. The couple remained together because they did not have a prenuptial agreement. Giulia had entered into the marriage naively, bringing half of their current wealth with her when the couple moved to America for Sforza's work. It was only too easy in the end for Alessandro. She couldn't divorce him without losing her fair share, along with her reputation among their particular circle of elite society.

She remained in her adopted homeland where she was among the first to dive into the reconstruction of Gotham after the Joker's demise and Batman's disappearance. Over the years, she'd overcome her humiliation and rebuilt her reputation—she was now well known for her devotion to Gotham's less fortunate, donating unreservedly to orphanages, senior homes, hospitals, public schools and homeless shelters. She'd become a volunteer ballet instructor at a rundown inner-city center for performing arts which catapulted her into practically sainthood. When she performed at the occasional benefit concert or the children's year-end show, they were almost always guaranteed to be sold out.

In short, she became a media darling through her good works, and her husband ridiculous tabloid fodder.

Looking up, Gordon noticed that the place was far humbler than he would have expected of someone of that social standing. It stood only two stories high with tangled vines of ivy climbing up the red brick walls. Her neighbors' residences matched hers almost completely save for the ivy, an unusual sight in a semi-urban part of the city. A few parked cars were scattered along the otherwise quiet street, and the majority of the people walking past were young families, dog-walkers, or businesspeople. All in all, it seemed like a normal upper-middle class neighborhood.

He did not know Mrs. Sforza that well. He'd only met her once, at the unveiling of the new city library after the many renovations done to it because of the damage it sustained from the Joker's chaos. She seemed so very young then. He wondered if her husband's bad behavior had aged her, as Gordon himself had aged but for a myriad of different reasons.

He rang the doorbell and stood back at a polite distance from the front doors. They were painted white and had sloping golden handles with opposite facing half circles of painted glass on each side. The hazy late afternoon light shimmered through the apertures and he could detect a faint shape through them as the left door was slowly pulled back.

"Commissioner Gordon! I did wonder when I'd see you," the woman said invitingly.

He was compelled to smile since she remembered his name and seemed amenable to receiving him.

"Hello, Mrs. Sforza. I am sorry that we should cross paths due to such an unfortunate situation."

She waved her hand dismissively and shook her head.

"Please, do come in."

Gordon ambled into the foyer and was immediately taken aback by the broad view she had of the Gotham River from her living room. The sight of the park and river more than made up for the humble size of the townhouse. He became suddenly aware of his slightly scuffed shoes and rumpled shirt as he stepped over the spotless wooden floor.

She eventually surpassed him as she led him into the living room, and he noticed she wore no shoes. In truth, Gordon had quite forgotten the impact of Mrs. Sforza's presence. His memory hadn't retained her wordless charisma at all; she had an uncanny way of making him feel like she was greeting him as she would an old friend. Her brown hair was arranged in a loose chignon at the base of her neck and her long bangs just brushed her eyelashes. She regarded him frankly with her peculiar grey eyes.

She asked him to sit and beckoned to adjacent armchairs nearest the windows, sensing that he was drawn to them as most who visited her were.

"How may I help you this afternoon, Commissioner Gordon? I trust you've heard from my dear _marito_." Her slight accent colored her words and underscored her sarcasm.

He observed her at length, seeing how her crossed arms gave away belligerence that was most likely aimed at a man thousands of miles across the world.

"We have concluded after an intensive investigation that the break-in at your penthouse was carried out by two men of significant criminal backgrounds. They are being tracked as we speak and I am happy to tell you that arrests will be made in at least twenty four hours. I can't promise you that we'll be able to return all of what was taken, but the men will be charged with breaking and entering and theft."

Mrs. Sforza's posture softened when she leaned back into the chair. She breathed in deeply then exhaled a sigh.

"Well, it was all as simple as that, anyway. You know it, I know it, and it's just Alessandro who doesn't want to believe it." She remarked flippantly, but he saw the pain veiled behind those eyes that looked ancient on her unlined face.

"Those jewels aren't mine anyway, they're probably gifts for his other women. Of course he'd think the vandalism and theft was my doing."

"Have you spoken with him at all since the burglary?"

"No. We communicate only through email these days. I wrote to him that I wasn't involved at all but what can one do against such stubbornness?" With a one shouldered shrug, the lady drew her right leg up to cross it over her left.

Her lips formed into a hesitant smile just then. The woman had a sort of appealing vulnerability about her that managed to draw people in, a rare and artless quality that one didn't encounter often.

"Enough about this nonsense. How is it around GCPD headquarters? They say peace breeds laziness but I have greater faith than most in you and your men."

She was unexpectedly forward in her inquiry. Gordon contemplated his response momentarily.

"Calm now, almost too calm sometimes. I can't guarantee that at least one of my men isn't wishing for the action of the old days."

"You care for them a great deal," She murmured with her head tilted slightly, "I always knew you were incorruptible."

He felt a stab of remorse, reminded of the lies he propagated to keep Gotham's morale intact, of Harvey Dent and Batman, and the debilitating injury done to the former and the blatant injustice to the latter. He swallowed down his regret, fearing Mrs. Sforza might detect something strange in his rather visceral reaction. In reality he hardly deserved her effusive praise and this was not the appropriate time to delve into his own brand of pathological guilt.

Thankfully, she looked away and he used the reprieve to compose himself.

"Has it been two years since the library opening?" She wondered aloud, "It seems like a lifetime, almost. And I still owe you a dance."

Gordon was taken aback by the lilt in her accented voice. He pictured them standing together by the windows, swaying slowly to a tune of no great importance to him but the proximity of her body, the faint scent of her perfume.

_The scent of jasmine pervaded the garden pavilion. He'd been on his phone about an office matter when he almost walked into a woman turning the corner of the stone wall corridor that led back to the party._

_Her gown seemed to whisper as it brushed the floor, just barely, while she walked. That's why he didn't hear her approaching until they nearly collided. It must have been the palest shade of chartreuse with flecks of gold woven into the bodice and the diaphanous skirts. He could never figure out why her clothes so thoroughly became her. She breathed life into what she wore, rather than letting the clothes adorn or embellish her. _

_He didn't speak at all but she looked him straight in the eye and apologized. The color of her dress amplified the effect of her eyes, wide and inquisitive. Her hair was arranged in a tousled bun, her rosy lips and cheeks only added to her image as a lovely nymph of old stories he'd read as a boy._

_Slightly chagrined by the inanity of his rather florid thoughts, he'd started to introduce himself. _

"_I'm—"_

"_James Gordon, Gotham Police Department's Commissioner. I've seen you on the news rather frequently. My name is Giulia," The lady said. _

"_A name to match your loveliness." He'd blurted out, surprising both himself and her."I apologize for almost running you over."_

_She had a pleasant, faintly musical laugh._

"_You are too kind, Commissioner, don't trouble yourself. I hope you've enjoyed the evening thus far. Tell me, what do you think of our petite soirée?" _

_The opening of the main branch of Gotham's Public Library was done completely under her direction. There were white cast iron tables and chairs scattered throughout the pavilion where investors and city officials mingled over dinner. The press took care not to trample the exotic species of flowers and shrubs while they snapped photos. The blossom trees were festooned with yellow lights that cast a cozy ambience over the open space. The gardens were meant for people to read in, after the party was over. The old library had once been a religious house and still retained an old Gothic feel reminiscent of English monasteries. The contrast between the building and the adjacent gardens was astonishingly beautiful._

_Every detail had been meticulously planned, and she had outdone herself with the reception in the surrounding gardens. The soft jazz band played in intervals during the evening; the rhythmic strumming of a bass was audible from where they were standing. She looked quite at ease beneath the old stone arches of the library._

"_I think you've done magnificently. No words of mine can do it justice."_

_In truth, he felt wrong-footed. This wasn't his territory; he didn't know how to talk to her. He'd not yet become used to working the social circuit, so to speak, since he'd been promoted only a few months ago. She didn't seem to mind his verbal clumsiness however and appeared to be genuinely pleased when he complimented the event. _

"_I wanted it to remind people of home. The library should be a sanctuary for all. That was my goal in the restoration."_

"_I'd expect no less from a university professor," He said in a gently teasing voice._

"_Ah, so you've heard of me too apparently!"_

"_Since I handled the security measures for the event, it would be remiss if I hadn't."_

"_I suppose I must thank you for keeping us all safe." Her voice was sincere. He knew she was referring to more than just that particular evening's security._

"_No need, Mrs. Sforza. I'm just doing my duty. I'd hate to see the books harmed after all."_

_This time she tilted her head upward as she laughed at his not-too-subtle conversational maneuvering._

"_I've always been protective of books. My mother maintained a small but worthwhile collection of rare volumes in her house on Corsica. I'd guard those with my life."_

"_Corsica?"_

_She darted a look at him, wondering about his tone._

"_I thought you and your husband were from Italy. My mistake." He clarified._

"_Oh—my husband is Milanese through and through. I am half Corsican. I grew up half in my father's estate in Italy, the other half on my mother's island."_

"_I see." Images of sunny beaches flew through his mind, of untouched, rocky wilderness juxtaposed with the vast Mediterranean. He shook himself inwardly, conversing with her seemed to disrupt the orderliness of his thoughts. _

"_Actually, I'm glad to have met you tonight."_

"_Really, why?" _

"_When my daughter Babs was younger, my wife and I took her to see the winter production of Swan Lake at the Conservatory…You played Odette. I swear I'd never seen my little girl so still and silent. At least until we left the theater and took her home, then she wouldn't stop talking about the ballet for a week. She's still taking lessons and I try to catch her recitals when I can. I'm glad I can now thank you, for making her so happy."_

_A slow blush spread over her face and down past her neck. Her humility manifested itself in this way; no one could accuse her of pushing false modesty. He stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the stone wall._

"_I'm glad she enjoyed it. I can't take so much of the credit, after all you and your wife thought to expose her to the ballet. Performing arts are so _important_ for children; little else can stimulate the fancies of youthful imagination. But I must say that at my ripe old age of thirty two, wearing pointe shoes is getting a little more difficult," said the lady jokingly._

"_Do you still teach?"_

_Her eyebrows rose up at his question. She must not have been expecting him to express any further interest in her dancing._

"_Yes, I try to be constant presence at GYPAC," She meant Gotham Youth Performing Arts Center, a nonprofit that taught underprivileged children. _

"_The kids keep me on my toes. No pun intended."_

_They shared a laugh. Her beauty was reserved but warm, though she did everything she could not to intimidate. She easily could have, whether it was through her upbringing, her education, her wealth, or her philanthropy. This was no trite celebrity or debutante of the cliché "down-to-earth" variety. Hers was an understated grace, one that was to be savored in small amounts then remembered fondly. It should have been weird, how easy it was to talk to her, but it wasn't. Perhaps she was simply one of those people who could conjure instant rapport with anyone. The thought, however more realistic, was disheartening. He tried to put it aside._

_There was a brief silence between them. The distant music and general din of the party-goers went ignored by both. He wondered if there was any truth to the rumors about her._

_At last, she looked away from him. She crossed her arms as if she were suddenly remembering herself. Looking back at the party, she asked, "And where is Mrs. Gordon tonight? It is not too late for dancing."_

_His expression must have betrayed him, for a flash of shame stole across her features. _

"_I—uh…I'm afraid that my wife couldn't be here tonight but I'm sure she would've loved what you did with the library."_

_She remained quiet without groping for something to say to fill the silence. Unfortunately, it was something he himself couldn't do._

"_Would you…like to dance Mrs. Sforza? I may not be a classically trained dancer but I assure you I've never stepped on a lady's toe in my life."_

_She tilted her head a little to the side, lowering her eyelids with a smile. _

_He looked her over, appraising her fine cheekbones and bright eyes, the way a stray lock of wavy hair had fallen to tickle her collarbone. He had a sudden impulse to tuck the wayward strand behind her ear when suddenly a man's voice barked out her name._

"_Giulia!"_

_She jumped visibly, the harsh sound spoiling her inherent calmness._

"_There you are, I've been looking for you everywhere. I need you at my side, the Mayor is asking for you—" _

_Tall, lithe, and blessed with handsome aquiline features, Alessandro Sforza gripped his wife's arm none too gently. She flinched ever so slightly but didn't shrink away. She replied in rolling Italian, and Gordon was effectively excluded from their dialogue. Mr. Sforza spoke in arctic, clipped tones. Gordon knew right away that this was definitely not a loving marriage, perhaps it had never been. _

_He watched Sforza's eyes travel languidly to notice him standing there. The man only deigned to nod in his direction, before releasing Giulia and exiting the stone cloister as aggressively as he entered._

_A short moment later, she straightened her shoulders and held her head in her natural poised manner._

"_Commissioner, I would love to dance with you but it seems I must return to playing hostess." _

_He wasn't sure if that was regret in her voice or shame at the way her husband talked to her in front of a guest. Gordon felt an ache in his chest that was strangely potent. Her sorrow moved him in ways he couldn't really comprehend. _

"_Good evening Madame Sforza."_

_She smiled as fully as she could manage, but he could tell how much it cost her to do so. He stepped closer even as his mind screamed at him to cease and desist, even as he felt the feather light brush of her fingers upon his cheek…_

Abruptly he broke his line of thought and Gordon felt like a fool. The entire thing was a true memory except for the very last of it. She hadn't touched him but followed her retreating husband back into the party, not sparing a backward glance for him, Gordon. He certainly _wouldn't_ have attempted to pursue her, not when it was still early days in his and Barbara's separation. He put it down to a detestable knee-jerk reflex he seemed to have developed ever since his wife left him. Companionship was what he missed more than anything but it was far more than he deserved considering his moral crime.

She was looking at him curiously, warily. It was a bit mortifying to be caught wool-gathering on what was meant to be an official visit. He felt his face flush.

Was it really so important that he impose upon her time to tell her what easily could have been transmitted through a single phone call? He glanced furtively around the room and noted the stillness; the only noises were the distant sound of the river current below and the boats travelling upon it. As if sensing his abrupt discomfort, Mrs. Sforza spoke.

"I shall not be offended if you decline, but…would you stay for dinner, Commissioner? I made a huge bowl of homemade arrabbiata that would put make any of the places on Restaurant Row ashamed to call themselves Italian."

Jim Gordon took a moment to respectfully consider her invitation. She sat before him, clad in a simple cashmere sweater and dark denims. He made his decision.

"I'm afraid there's more work to be done at the office, Mrs. Sforza. And tonight I'm meeting Mayor Garcia for a briefing on the security measures for Saturday's parade. I—I thank you for your kind hospitality."

He felt that she saw right through him.

"I just thought that since you're here and it's nearly seven…"

She trailed off when she saw the look on his face. He wondered what she saw at that precise moment, what cue spurred her invitation. Was it her pity for him? Surely she noticed he didn't wear his wedding ring anymore.

"Perhaps another time, then." She conceded graciously, much to his surprise.

He cleared his throat gently and stood, straightening the sleeves of his blazer. The sun had lowered, casting a burnished glow on everything in its path. It set her eyes alight, illuminating the subtle disappointment there, and making the slight coppery lowlights in her otherwise brown hair noticeable. He knew a pang of remorse at that. She had no other engagements, and in all honesty, neither did he. Even though she only meant dinner (it was what might happen after that had him uneasy) it felt wrong to accept when he remembered that his divorce papers were freshly signed, sealed and on their way to Barbara's attorney in Ohio. It was an unpleasant reminder of how off-kilter his world had become, and how far his equilibrium had been thrown.

She followed him out as he exited her home. The exquisite white door closed behind him and Gordon walked down the steps of the townhouse while he pictured her sitting alone by the highly arched windows watching as even the sun deserted her.

* * *

A/N: Giulia Sforza is my first attempt at an OC. I imagined her as being played by the French actress Sophie Marceau circa "The World is not Enough," with her signature _je nais sais quoi_. Please leave a review and let me know what you think, and if you'd like to read more than just a one-shot. :)


	2. Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

**Ch. 2**

It was a week before he next saw her. This time she came to Gotham Police Department at his behest, after his secretary left several urgent messages on her answering machine. She didn't return any of them though, supposedly because she was overseeing the remodeling of her husband's penthouse, lecturing three days a week at the university as well as dancing at the Conservatory. Inwardly, Gordon suspected the reason for her hesitance had to do with his unintended yet impolite brush-off the last time he saw her.

It was a complete surprise when the lady in question finally agreed to go to the Major Crimes Unit office with two beat cops who called her out of a rehearsal at the Gotham Conservatory of Dance. Blake recognized her upon her arrival and greeted her before he escorted her through several curious detectives and patrol officers to the commissioner's office. Gordon was in the middle of a phone call with Metropolis PD when Giulia Sforza pinned him with that insurmountably clear gaze. He finished the call, hung up, and thanked Blake, who tossed his superior an inscrutable look. Giulia stepped inside and Blake shut the door behind him on his way out.

Today she wore her wavy hair down, unrestrained, it fell just past her shoulders. Clad in her long sleeved leotard that scooped down just past her sternum and loose grey sweat pants, she looked every bit like the off-duty dancer.

She walked with loping steps, hips aligned, and shoulders back. Despite her languid posture, there was a tension in her face as if she knew instinctively what he was about to tell her.

"Mrs. Sforza, how are you? Please, have a seat."

In a direct reversal of their roles last time she lowered herself gracefully into the opposite chair and set her purse and gym bag on the floor. With his imposing desk between them, she was conscious of the power he exuded in his domain. People here reported to him, there was authority in his posture which suited him. He saw it in her eyes, that she was aware of this. Her gaze briefly passed over his gleaming placard that displayed his full name and official title.

"I didn't exactly relish the expressions on my colleagues' faces when your men barged into our rehearsal. Opening night is in three days! Well, I probably deserved it. I do apologize for my tardiness in returning your calls. I have been rather _occupata recentemente_." She slipped a little into her native tongue without becoming flustered; she just waved her hand in that same dismissive manner he'd seen her do before.

"Please, think nothing of it. My main concern is that you are informed of what the men who broke into your property have confessed to. These men," Gordon positioned some mugshots of varying degrees of menace before her, "are now in our custody in the lockup downstairs. They have both, under separate interrogations, confessed that they were hired to murder you."

Finally, the blasé pretense fell away and her jaw dropped in surprise. With wide eyes, she glanced from him to the pictures.

The first man had an angular face with deep set eyes and olive skin. His anger was visible in the tightness of his jaw, the way the muscles in his neck were tensed while the picture was taken. The thin white scar that bisected his left cheekbone was instantly recognizable. This man was one of the doormen at Gotham State Building.

She moved to the second picture, studying it for a moment.

The accomplice had straw-colored, long hair that thinned out at the ends and gave his appearance an overall anemic look. He was young, far too young to be a gun-for-hire. He was maybe in his early twenties. She surveyed his sad blue eyes and the fullness of his cheeks that came from baby fat not yet shed. He could have easily been one of the disadvantaged youngsters she tried so hard to help. That even one poor boy should slip through the cracks, forgotten and neglected by well-meaning people, tore at her. Now he'd be tried as a man for a crime that could have easily been prevented by simple circumstance.

When she finally looked back up at him, he began to explain what had already been done.

"Their names are Christopher Forslund and Jake Sheperd. They cut a deal with the DA's office that they would reveal the rest of their conspiracy to commit murder and the identity of whoever hired them to do so. Mrs. Sforza, what exactly is the nature of your husband's business relationship with Daggett Industries?"

Blinking rapidly, she shook her head in the negative.

"You would have to ask Alessandro yourself."

"He doesn't appear to be readily accessible at the moment," said Gordon a tad sardonically.

"Half my marriage I couldn't turn around without bumping into him and now that he's left the country, suddenly everyone wants to talk to him." Incredulousness began to creep into her tone.

"What part of 'you are a victim of a failed assassination attempt' don't you understand? I'm legally obligated to investigate any leads in regards to this disturbance in your otherwise perfect life and I'll sit here all day with you if that's what it takes. Imagine the time the District Attorney's gonna take, and they don't really give a damn if you've got other things to do. " he barked.

Gordon realized he might have been a tad dramatic when Mrs. Sforza stiffened and sat up. Usually amiable and relaxed, she looked upset before reining it in so that her face was a blank slate from which he could discern nothing.

Weighing her options, she endeavored to give him a helpful answer.

"From what I understand and if my memory serves me correctly, Gotham General Bank and Trust has handled some of Daggett's accounts for several years. Alessandro and Daggett have been friends for longer than I've been married to my husband."

Gordon opened a small pad of paper to jot down what she was saying, an old habit he'd retained ever since he was a beat cop. She paused as she watched him scribble some things onto the paper and then continued when he poised his pen in the air. He became aware of how physical her stare could be at that moment. Even while staring at his notes, he could feel her looking at him.

"My husband has always been the one to move John's money when the market shows the smallest hint of moving in a direction unfavorable to John's desire to expand his company. Alessandro had mentioned offhand the last time I saw him, that John was burning through his money so fast that the balances seemed to change by the minute."

"Did your husband mention at all what Daggett was working on that's draining his accounts?"

"Only that John and our mutual friend Miranda Tate were funding repairs of Gotham's entire sewer system by the Department of Water and Power."

"There's been hardly any mention of this, and I work for the city."

"The discretion is most likely Miranda's doing. She doesn't like the limelight, and Daggett's always been rather cowed by her."

"Must be, if she's gotten him to utilize his capital and construction crews for what's essentially a charity project." Gordon supposed. There was something about the situation that didn't quite feel right; his instincts were flaring up in reaction to the new developments of this case.

"So Commissioner, exactly where does the plot to kill me exist amidst all this?" She asked pointedly.

"The men who broke into your husband's apartment cannot legally own firearms as one of them has been previously convicted of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon and the other stabbed his stepfather to death when he was fourteen. They were paid two hundred fifty thousand dollars each in cash and were given two handguns registered to one Philip Stryver."

"Stryver?" Mrs. Sforza looked stricken. "Philip Stryver?"

"You know the name?"

"Yes…He—He's John's executive vice president at Daggett Industries."

Gordon watched her take in this piece of information with regret. These friends of her husband were up to no good and he knew how it felt to discover that the world as one knows it can change in the blink of an eye, almost arbitrarily.

Mrs. Sforza hung her head, causing her long bangs to fall forward and cover her eyes.

"I know this is uncomfortable but it is my detectives' belief and my own, that your husband intended to have you killed. Now, why would he want you gone?" He made sure to press gently.

Still looking down, Gordon had to listen carefully because of the softness of her deepened voice.

"He wants my money. I am the only impediment to his sole desire; to be unmistakably wealthy. He keeps his official mistress in Capri you know, perhaps she is encouraging him. That he would have it done so carelessly, leaving it to John Daggett of all people, and to flee before the deed is done, that is entirely in character." She said bitterly. "They could have succeeded so easily, so why didn't they? Why did they attack the wrong residence?"

It was almost like she was disappointed in the thugs' failure to claim her life. This was no poor little rich girl, but a woman who struggled to find meaning in her existence and so threw herself into trying to better humanity. To have that faith thrown back in her face must have stung badly.

"I think it was pure miscommunication that led them to the penthouse instead of your townhouse, also because this man," Gordon pointed to the man with the scar, "has immediate access to Gotham State Building. It wasn't too far of a leap to obtain access to the top floor. When they realized their mistake they made the best out of the opportunity and stole what they could instead. When we've built a sturdy enough case against your husband, we can seek to have him extradited to face trial here in Gotham. Whether we can toss Daggett onto the list remains to be seen since we're still at a very preliminary stage in our investigation."

The woman grew very pale, leaving her complexion ashy. She looked so exhausted by the idea that Gordon felt a surge of protectiveness well up in him. He hardly knew her—why did he care so deeply what happened to her? He preferred not to dwell on the reason.

"I knew it would come to this. I just knew it, but I cannot live in fear of him. Commissioner what can you possibly do that hasn't been done before? I am no battered wife though my dignity has taken more hits than any fighter. And Alessandro is very good at hiding, likely to be for a long time now that his little plot has failed."

"I can have you protected; there is no guarantee that he's not going to try again. You're an extremely…vulnerable target, Mrs. Sforza."

There was no mistaking the tenderness in the commissioner's voice. Through her he glimpsed a mysterious resignation to her fate and a fierce will that almost crossed the line into obstinacy. These things made him burn to keep her safe, to prove to her that her life was more precious than she'd been led to believe after enduring years of a loveless marriage. Maybe the effect she seemed to have on him could be attributed to the fact that in their personal lives, they faced essentially the same situation. Alone, in their respective ways, and trapped in their personal hells from which there could be no escape.

He listened to her steady, measured breathing. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and held out a business card, which she accepted uncertainly.

"When you're walking about on the streets and if you see any person or car that you recognize, duck into a store and pretend to run errands for a while. If they follow you inside, I want you to call that number. Until my men can get to you, you have to remain calm and make sure that you are never alone with your pursuer. Nothing can happen to you if you're among a crowd of potential witnesses. If you're home alone and you hear a weird noise, do NOT try to discover the source. Make a habit of closing all of your windows at night if you don't already, double check everything's locked before you sleep. Any odd phone calls, or the doorbell rings when you're not expecting anyone, you call that number."

She glanced at the card, which displayed in small black font only a single phone number.

"That's my secure office line, which could also be routed to my cell phone."

"…Why do you do this? I have never known Loeb to be so personally committed to those who'd needed his help during his tenure as Commissioner."

"I can't turn my back on those who need help, no matter who they may be. And you are our city's hope; you are the model of altruism among so much apathy."

Now her pallor receded as her cheeks flushed, and she avoided looking at him. He noticed that she twisted her right hand ring finger with her left, probably a nervous habit that she wasn't even aware of.

"You all paint me in such poetic terms. I am just doing what I ought to with what I have been blessed with. I am no Mother Theresa, Commissioner Gordon. My husband has simply tired of me and seeks to extract that which will serve him better than I ever did."

"You don't deserve to be cast aside like that," Gordon said forcefully.

"Nobody does. But that doesn't mean it doesn't happen every day." Her cheeks and slender throat were still rosy.

"I…I will exert more caution when I am out. I may be a stubborn mule, Commissioner but I am grateful for your warning and advice. I hope that I've been of help to you somehow, and I will be available to your office should your detectives have any other questions. I'll try to answer as best I can."

With that, Mrs. Sforza rose and bent toward him with one hand outstretched to shake his own. His eyes flickered to her dainty fingers, noticing that even the turn of her wrist was so refined. Inwardly, he chastised himself for making a habit of mentally waxing poetic where she was concerned. It seemed to be something she brought out in him. He moved at once to shake her hand and tried with all his might to ignore the way it fit within his own.

"Goodbye, Commissioner."

She gave him a half-smile, one that would have put the Mona Lisa to shame, and within a moment, he was alone in his office once more.

The world seemed to rush back in at him, as if everything had been miraculously put on pause while during his appointment with Mrs. Sforza. He continued to field calls from various civil servants from the Mayor's Office, and to check on the daily operations of the various departments within headquarters. Everything ran smoothly.

He continued to ponder the scenarios that might have driven Mr. Sforza to attempt to have his wife killed. John Daggett's possible involvement was surprising but then again Gordon has seen far worse in his career. Giulia's money would make a nice prize indeed, but Sforza wouldn't be able to collect any on her life insurance, which was admittedly a small fortune on its own if she died of anything other than natural causes.

What exactly was happening in the sewers was also giving Gordon cause to journey down there himself. He'd not seen any memo or report that approved a sewer clean-up project, and something that required that much time, money and labor would definitely make its way around the branches of city government. That some of Gotham's corporate elite were collaborating with the city was unexpected too. He supposed that if anything, it wouldn't hurt to send a few cops to ascertain that the construction workers had the correct permits and licenses.

His phone chirped suddenly, a sign that his secretary had placed a call to him. He let it ring twice before he picked it up to answer.

* * *

A while later in the breakroom, Gordon found Foley attempting to brew a decent pot of coffee as his secretary had taken that Tuesday afternoon off to take her son to a dentist appointment. Foley was searching around inside a cabinet for a clean filter.

"Did you know that DWP's begun a massive overhaul of the sewer system?"

"Really? When?" His deputy asked absently positioned the filter inside the machine before he opened the can of ground coffee and scooped a decent amount for about six cups. Foley picked up the empty coffee pot, holding it under the faucet as he filled it up with water.

Gordon crossed his arms, leaning against the adjacent counter.

"I don't know. That's why I thought it was strange that we haven't heard anything of it. I mean, discretion is one thing, but it's like it's top secret. A sewer clean-up given the cover of a defense operation? What do you make of it?"

"Maybe it was buried in the budget. It wouldn't surprise me if that was the case and that's why no one knows anything about it."

"I need you to use your contacts to ask around, but very discreetly."

"If _you're_ having problems finding someone who'll tell you about this cleanup project, I can't promise that I'll have better luck."

The note of forced humility was a little bit much, but to anyone who knew Foley, it was something one simply got used to.

"Did you try the head of DWP?" Foley asked, a bit obviously.

"I placed a call to Laura Bowers. When her secretary asked what the call was regarding, I told her I had some questions about the sewer project. She told me Bowers was out for the day. I didn't push it any further but clearly it was an evasive tactic. If the head of the DWP won't take my call—"

"Is this what you've been doing all day?" The other man's tone was slightly mocking.

"It's related to an active case."

"Must be quite a case if it's got the head of MCU chasing crocodiles." And he wasn't referring to the rumored animals that inhabited the sewer tunnels.

Any genuine interest Foley might have shown in helping Gordon track this thing down was quickly overrun by his amusement at his own pun. Foley poured the water into the coffee machine, grinning insipidly to himself while Gordon looked on.

Gordon sensed he was running into a brick wall here and felt a flash of irritation as he watched Foley frown and fumble some more with the buttons of the coffee machine. The bottlenecks of bureaucracy had never made Gordon want to hit something as much as they did right in that moment. He gritted his teeth in annoyance, barely containing his rising temper as he watched his subordinate fuss with the machine. If only he could have the satisfaction of clouting Foley over the head with some heavy, blunt object, Gordon could go home a happy man. Unfortunately, that wasn't a viable plan of action so he settled for a verbal jab.

"For Christ's sake, man it's not that complicated—"

Gordon pressed the 'on' button and stormed out of the breakroom, quitting Foley's presence as a couple of beat cops smothered their amused reactions to the Deputy Commissioner's ineptitude.

* * *

Gordon meandered to the rooftop to get some fresh air as the clock struck five in the afternoon. The skyline spread out before him, and he stared blankly at distant midtown Gotham. Despite the city's efforts to make Gotham cleaner, there was still a cloud of hazy smog that appeared above the buildings especially around the industrial areas on the outskirts of the island. With the batsignal beside him, he thought of the dark knight who'd given up so much just so Gordon and Harvey Dent could save face.

What good was the truth now when all it could do was hurt? The lies that healed the city were nestled snugly like a bandage over the wound and to rip it off now would be folly. Gordon knew this, he knew it well, but that didn't mean there weren't times when he longed to do just that. It was evident in the way he tucked that god-forsaken speech into his jacket pocket from time to time. It reminded him of the true cost of Gotham's peace. He would never let himself forget it. He thought of Barbara, their son and daughter. Jimmy was going into his junior year of high school this month, and Babs was finishing up middle school.

There was something in the cool late September breeze, a familiar smell, cinnamon perhaps. It permeated his senses and left him teary-eyed. He imagined his kids running through fallen red and orange leaves like the ones outside the Sforza townhouse, Barbara chasing after them with a breathless smile. The nostalgia rendered him completely emotionally compromised as he forced himself to shove it back, to hold it together for a little while longer before he could return to his empty apartment where there were no witnesses to this most private pain.

Dinner was a solemn undertaking. He'd sliced up a rather plain looking salad in an effort to eat healthier. The lettuce tasted flat and flavorless and the carrots he'd chopped were lumpy and uneven. He'd stopped smoking entirely by sheer force of will, and now that his taste buds were slowly making their presence known again, he'd had to relearn what flavors he liked. Gordon ate while leaning over the sink which became his habit most nights when he absolutely had no further excuse to stay at work any later than seven.

Unwittingly, his thoughts drifted to the bowl of arrabbiata that he'd missed out on by refusing to dine with Mrs. Sforza. He'd done the right thing, hadn't he? She was an attractive socialite whose husband was away, and now a key character in a murder plot. Any invitation no matter how innocuous would be fraught with uncomfortable conflicts of interest. It didn't even mean much that it was _he,_homely James Gordon, whom she invited to eat with her. He could have been any man and if he were honorable, he'd have done the same thing out of respect for her and a healthy sense of self-preservation.

Or was he overthinking everything? Finding fault where it didn't exist without much thought toward her own feelings? He remembered what she said in his office about her bruised dignity. Did she mean that he was also partly responsible for it? It was ridiculous how overblown the situation was becoming within the stifling confines of his own head.

He wondered what she was doing now, if she was getting ready to rest to face a new day tomorrow. He imagined her slipping into crisp white cottons sheets, smelling like face cream, jasmine and the intoxicating aroma of a woman about to sleep. Would she sleep on her side, or on her back? He halted that particular line of thought before it could progress any further, or all of his mad inner ramblings would prove that he was exactly that which he'd most vehemently claimed he wasn't.

While Gordon lay still and quiet in his bed that night, he mused how peacetime was really far more dreadful than the opposite. There was too much time for self-reflection. When at war, it's not the ideal time or place for someone to analyze their psyche or even stop to think at all, not when there's so much at stake. In peacetime, there was nearly nothing to do but pick apart every action, every deed, and every word of the past. He'd been at war for so long that he'd forgotten how to live. He'd never known how it felt to not fight for something; in Chicago, in Gotham, in his career, marriage... What bothered him most was the acknowledgement that when the proverbial uniform came off at the end of the day and it was time to turn 'Sergeant,' 'Lieutenant' and now 'Commissioner' Gordon off, he was at an utter loss as to how he could actually do that. He longed for Barbara's soothing presence; he still slept on his side of the bed instead of the middle. His eyes shut; he began to drift into sleep.

_The cold had come early, it seemed. The cityscape was covered in snow, the skyscrapers towered over the frozen river like unlit candles on a white birthday cake. The streets were empty. He wondered why he was here, atop Trigate Bridge by himself as the gusts blew past the immobile steel. Looking around, he noticed that darkness was falling, falling, falling until the ice below appeared gleaming black. The moon revealed itself through a part in the clouds overhead._

_The hairs on the back of his neck rose as Gordon sensed he was no longer alone._

"_Show yourself!" He shouted to the wind, turning in a full circle._

_There was nothing._

_He began to walk back toward the city, because he had to do something instead of loafing around like an idiot. He walked faster and faster until he noticed he was running, pumping his arms up and down in precise ninety degree angles as he'd done ever since he ran track in high school._

_He slowed eventually, as the city seemed to be unreachable no matter how far he ran toward it._

"_Where are you off to in such a rush, Commissioner?" A menacingly nasal voice said from behind him._

_Gordon whipped his head around, pulling out a gun he didn't know he had and aiming it to the source of that horrible sound._

_The Joker stood four feet away, smiling and yet not with those gruesome scars covered in cakey makeup. His eyes glistened coldly, though Gordon was momentarily captivated by the calculation balanced with insanity in them. The purple suit was as shabby as ever, his greasy, limp hair colored green with his true color growing out from his scalp. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, a tic that gave the Joker the sort of frantic energy that made it appear he might spontaneously erupt into all-out epileptic attack._

"_You're gonna want to look that a-way, now THERE's a sight for sore eyes!"_

_Against his will, Gordon glanced toward where the Joker was pointing. He turned but was ready to shoot should the clown step so much as an inch in his direction._

_There, at the edge of the bridge, was a pair of hands he recognized. They were clinging to the railing for dear life and on the left hand was the wedding band he'd slipped onto her finger years ago. Gordon ignored the Joker and holstered his gun, running toward the edge of the bridge. He crouched down and leaned over to find Barbara dangling above what would be a fatal fall to the ice below. She screamed his name as her grip began to weaken, knuckles deathly white because of the strain and the cold._

_He told her to grab onto his hands. Bracing his legs to pull her up, she latched onto him roughly and he heaved her toward him. When she was completely back on the bridge, Gordon snapped back around to refocus on the Joker. With practiced hands, he aimed his gun at the spot where the villain was supposed to be._

_The Joker was nowhere to be found, causing Jim's gut to clench in fear._

"_Barb, we have to get back to the city—"_

"_YES, dear we MUST!" Her voice was completely wrong. Gordon glanced back at her in utter horror._

_Barbara was the Joker, or rather, the Joker was dressed as his wife._

_The clown grabbed onto Gordon's wrists and swung with a strength that belied the man's wiry frame. Gordon was flung almost all the way off the bridge, but the Joker's grip held him in place. His legs scrabbled for purchase but to no avail._

"_You'll never be rid of me, Jim. NEVER! Never never never. Because of me, and well because of what Dent became, really. Now, where's the Batman? Do you see him anywhere? Swooping in to rescue you from meeee? NO. Because he's gone! He's never coming back to this cesspit of a city to save your hide or anyone else's. Does it depress you, do I remind you how truly ALONE you are?"_

_The Joker's diatribe ended with a cackle, and then Gordon felt himself plummeting weightlessly to the dark waters below…_

He awoke with a shuddering gasp that rang out in the darkness, startled and alone as ever. Every noise he made seemed amplified, something that could be accounted for by the lack of any other furniture in the room but to his groggy mind only served to ramp up his heart rate. He turned on the lamp on his bedside table, trembling uncontrollably. Such a meltdown from one stupid dream was embarrassing, even in private. He wrapped himself in his thick blue duvet, hoping that the shivering would subside if he was warm enough.

Screwing his eyes shut, he took deep breaths in and out until his racing heart rate slowed.

_The night is always darkest before the dawn._ Those words might have brought him comfort, once. But instead, he felt hollow, fatigued, beaten by the demons and ghosts that had been his constant companions for the past eight years. He was tired of this. He was tired but he had no reprieve. In a way, he was glad of it. This was his penance. He could only hope there would be a day when they would let him rest in peace.

He lay there, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of his lamp until the dawn.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Please don't feel shy in letting me know what you think. I welcome constructive criticism as a newbie to the Dark Knight fandom. :) A huge thank you to walawalabadkoala, The Lady Sophrina, and melremade for your expressed interest in this fic! Your words seriously motivate me to write faster.

From this point on, we're going to slowly be getting into the events of The Dark Knight Rises, mostly concerning the scenes involving Gordon and sometimes Blake.


	3. Shape without form, shade without color

**Ch. 3**

The next day arrived unceremoniously and Jim Gordon was thankful for it. He tasked John Blake with assisting him in trying to get a hold of someone in the know at the Department of Water and Power. Detectives Crowe and Davies had located the remaining stolen jewelry from Alessandro Sforza's penthouse, which were now sitting in the evidence lockup, unlikely to be released anytime soon due to their relevance to the imminent criminal trial.

Gordon was out of the office most of the morning. He'd been attending a City Council meeting during which he was required to speak about the impending installations of cameras on traffic signals to catch drivers who ran red lights. The rest of the time he spent listening to citizens' concerns since it was a public hearing, sipping on tea because the coffee was even worse, and chewing on a bagel that could have passed for tire rubber. It was, therefore, a relief to return to the buzzing activity of the police station despite the fact that there was always still paperwork to complete.

"Any word from DWP about the sewer project?" asked Gordon, shrugging off his coat as he slowed his pace.

John Blake glanced up from his desk.

"The admin staff were extremely helpful, passed me from person to person until I realized they were basically giving me the run-around. I was somehow transferred to the head engineer. I asked him why there was such a massive repair project for the sewers and he sounded surprised. He said he wasn't aware of any such project and that there's nothing wrong with the current system. It definitely feels like there's something they don't want us to know, but when I asked them if they could email me an electronic copy of the map of the sewer tunnels, they agreed pretty easily."

"Finally," Gordon exclaimed. Getting definitive information out of absolutely anyone had been like pulling teeth, even more so than dealing with the usual bureaucratic types. "Print them. I wanna have a look."

"Okay, gimme a minute."

Gordon stood in front of Blake's desk, feeling a sense of déjà vu from the way Blake leaned forward to stare at his computer screen. He clicked his mouse a few times and scooted his rolling chair backward until he could reach the large printer behind him where the blueprints were spat out.

Had he ever been that young? Gordon wondered.

"Here you are, Commissioner. Could you tell me what this is all about?"

"I will, once I myself know what I'm looking for. Hold onto your copy, I have a hunch you'll need it."

"Why?" Blake asked.

"Only time will tell, rookie." He said gruffly, turning the map right side up. "I have to pay a visit to the head office of Daggett Industries."

He turned to walk back to his office when Blake called out to him.

"Commissioner, I think I should come with you. Whatever you're thinking is probably really important and I want to help. I mean, you're always telling me to take more initiative, right?"

Gordon looked at the young policeman, in his freshly pressed uniform with his badge gleaming in the light. He was reminded of himself at that age. Blake's earnestness was something that the department sorely lacked in the inevitable complacency that came hand in hand with peace in Gotham.

"You're driving then, rookie," he pointed a finger at Blake, leaving the young man grinning at his desk.

* * *

Daggett Industries headquarters was located near the Financial District in the southernmost part of the city. It was an ugly building, at odds with the ornate façades of the nearby City Hall buildings with its black glass walls and sleek appearance. Nonetheless, it was certainly an imposing building and that was undoubtedly the goal of its CEO when he tore down his father's building and replaced it with this eyesore. Blake parked the car on the street, one of the privileges that came with driving a squad car, and both of them got out and walked toward the entrance.

Flashing their badges when the armed guards stepped forward to block them, Gordon wondered if Blake felt as confident on the inside as he looked on the outside. They were about to go toe-to-toe with a brilliant but arrogant businessman who was more likely to shoot rainbows out of his ass than fall for any bait they could possibly throw regarding the attempted murder of Giulia Sforza or the sewer tunnel project.

There was a woman at the front desk whose treatment of them hardly changed when they flashed their badges again in response to her question of "Do you have an appointment with Mr. Daggett today?"

She simply told them which floor to hit when they were in the elevator to which they were consequently escorted by another armed guard.

Blake and Gordon stood side by side without looking at one another as the elevator picked up speed, hurtling ever upward to get to the CEO's floor. Because an executive office wasn't enough, a chief executive officer had to have an entire floor of their own apparently, Gordon thought with no small amount of sarcasm.

The elevator doors parted upon arrival at the top floor. The guard exited first and wordlessly began walking, automatically assuming that the Commissioner and his sidekick would follow. Gordon buttoned up his trench coat as he went, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious as they traversed the elegant hallway. Their shoes were especially noisy on the polished marble floors.

"Who knew construction paid so well?" Blake quipped under his breath, for which Gordon glared at him.

The guard arrived at a small numberpad at the side of the glass door and punched in a code with precision.

"Here you are, Police Commissioner."

Gordon stepped through the threshold with a murmured 'thanks', followed by Blake.

The view from the top was astonishing. They were afforded with an overview of everything uptown, and Wayne Tower was starkly visible above all other skyscrapers. Gordon looked around to find none other than Daggett perched against the corner of his mahogany wood desk. The office was clean and minimal with Spartan black leather furniture and a streamlined computer set up. There were multiple television sets situated throughout the room that were tuned into GCN, Bloomberg Financial News, CNBC, and Reuters. The stock and commodities prices cycled through in dizzying sequence while reporters gabbed away about the events that moved the market that day were clearly part and parcel of a job like Daggett's.

John Daggett had the mien of an Ivy League grad who'd had his education financed by his parents. His arrogance was thinly veiled beneath the veneer of philanthropic benevolence that was supposed to convince the world of his goodness, and by extension, his corporation's.

Never mind the fact that his job was handed to him by his father who'd founded the company, Daggett was a man whose gift for playing the market left him and his investors a wealthy people when the rest of the construction industry collapsed under the recent recession.

Today he wore a black turtleneck beneath a brown blazer and black slacks, looking every bit like a spoiled CEO. Physically, he resembled one of Jimmy's math teachers from the third grade he didn't particularly care for. Gordon repressed a snort at the thought.

"Commissioner Gordon, what a surprise! What can I do for you today, do you want coffee? Tea? My wife's on my case about drinking more green tea but frankly I can't stand the stuff." The man blathered but his eyes were sharp.

"Thank you Mr. Daggett but I'm afraid my purpose is all business today. We wonder if you have time to spare to sit down with us? It is a bit short notice but we've come into some information that needs to be clarified for an ongoing investigation." Gordon moved to stand in front of Daggett.

"Ask away, gentlemen. I only planned to eat my lunch before trading starts again at two."

At Gordon's nod, Blake stepped forward and pulled a copy of the sewer tunnel map from out of his uniform jacket and held it out toward the CEO. Gordon observed Daggett's demeanor for the slightest betrayal of his outwardly casual persona. He saw a dawning comprehension, signaling that there was far more to this project than met the passive eye. He knew with growing certainty that the project had something to do with the Sforzas, a connection that he was determined to discover.

"Mr. Daggett there's a problem with your building permits for the repairs that the city contracted your company for. It turns out that DWP didn't authorize any projects having to do with the sewer on account of, oh...well—there's actually nothing wrong with them." Blake ended on a note that bordered on insolence.

"Would you be so kind as to mark where your crews are working? The Department of Water and Power has recommended that they as well as GCPD inspect all of the locations under repair."

Jim Gordon knew a rat when he saw one. Daggett's entire attitude went from cavalier businessman to twitchy jackass in less than a minute.

Daggett exhaled with a smile, laughing nonchalantly at both officers.

"It's an environmental project that Miranda Tate and I have collaborated on, along with certain other..._investors, _shall we say? We had our own people, hers from Wayne Industries as well as my own, take a look at the underground system and they agree that it's time to make Gotham's sewage system more efficient. This city has been responsible for fifteen percent of the pollution of the northern state beach parks and accidental contamination of fresh water. We're seeking to minimize the damage while keep costs down as much as possible."

It made a beautiful story if only it wasn't common knowledge that people who were good at things didn't do them for free, and that if something's too good to be true, it most likely is.

"Nonetheless sir, we need you to mark down the locations of all underground construction sites. Or we could always get a search warrant for the original blueprints. That's a lot of legal hassle though, and if there's one thing that could tank a company's stock price, it would be problems with law enforcement." Blake said as Daggett yanked the map out of his hands.

"That's quite enough, gentlemen. You barge in here with your demands, without telling me anything about a criminal case requiring my testimony? I'll show you the construction sites, don't you worry…"

Gordon and Blake waited as the other man rushed behind his desk to pull out a pen and begin to draw x's that denoted a site. After a full minute, the city map was covered and Daggett handed it back to Blake defiantly. The near total recall the CEO had for these construction sites was an interesting fact in and of itself.

"Excellent," Gordon said dryly. Blake rolled up the map and stuck it back into his jacket pocket.

"Now, is there anything else I can…help you with?" This time the annoyance was blatant in the CEO's voice.

"In fact, there is. I'm glad you asked," Gordon said, leaning forward and planting both hands on the desktop. "It concerns your assistant Philip Stryver. Two of his guns have made their way into GCPD. You wouldn't happen to know anything about how that might be, would you?

Daggett held the Commissioner's steely gaze admirably, but in the end he caved.

"I might…but consider this. Stryver's always been a little free with his penchant for collecting guns. That sort of whimsy is what made him such a formidable trader, and a ruthless Vice President. We wouldn't want that particular brand of ruthlessness unleashed now, would we?" Daggett murmured dangerously in a mocking rendition of Gordon's question. "I'd hate to think of what might happen if you cross me, Commissioner Gordon."

Blake had had enough. All pretenses were over.

"Did you just threaten a senior rank police officer?" The younger man growled.

The air was nearly combusting with the tension. Gordon held his position fiercely, staring Daggett down with the authority vested in him by the Mayor of Gotham City.

After a suspenseful moment, Daggett broke under the pressure.

"Alright, alright Gordon. How about we let this little incident go, I'm sure that you wouldn't want to get bogged down by any lawsuits I could have drawn up at a drop of my hat. We can work something out."

Blake's eyes widened as Daggett reached over and opened his top left desk drawer, pulling out what looked like two movie tickets.

"For tonight's eight o'clock showing of _Giselle_. The Conservatory's outdone itself this year, the Times is calling it the performance of the decade. I figure since there are two of you, it'd be perfect to…you know, take in a little culture. Since, clearly, opportunities like this for you are rather sadly limited." Daggett's backhanded insult riled Blake up even more but Gordon shot him a look.

"Who's playing Giselle?" asked Gordon.

Daggett hesitated momentarily before he responded, "_La bella Sforza_, as they call her. She's really quite something as the principal dancer. Baryshnikov directed it as a guest of the Conservatory. Don't worry, I'll make it up to my wife somehow." The last few words were bit out tauntingly.

Gordon ignored the not-too-subtle jibe and glanced at where the tickets had been pushed forward. He picked them up and pocketed them, without another word he turned and made to exit the office. Just before leaving, he looked back at Daggett and said, "If I were you, I'd watch my steps from here on out Daggett."

With that, Gordon motioned to Blake that it was time to leave with a subtle tilt of his head. They waited as the guard let them out and escorted them back to the lobby.

When they got back into the car, Blake laid into Gordon about everything that just happened.

"You accepted a bribe! You, Commissioner Gordon, took a bribe in return for your silence. Of all the underhanded, des—"

"Son, cool your jets. You have to learn when to cut your losses. Daggett wasn't going to reveal anything more to us and it was a miracle that he even agreed to mark down the locations of where his crews are working. And now we know that he circumvented DWP entirely. What we need to do is ascertain the extent of Miranda Tate's involvement."

Blake took all of this in thoughtfully as he put the key in the ignition and started the car.

"Tickets to the ballet? Are we really gonna go?"

"Don't you think it was a bit too much of a coincidence that these are tickets to see _Giulia Sforza_? What could he have planned for her on the opening night of the production, that he would go through the trouble of obtaining seats practically in the orchestra pit?"

Blake went quiet and then nodded in comprehension but still a bit disgruntled that Gordon let Daggett think he was bribing him.

"I hope you have a suit at the office," Gordon remarked, sotto voce, while Blake merged into the flow of the midday city traffic.

* * *

The nights were getting colder while the sun set a little earlier each day as autumn rolled into Gotham. Jim Gordon donned a simple grey suit with a white dress shirt and black tie. He hadn't been to Vauxhall Opera House in years since Barbara insisted they see a Christmas production of The Nutcracker when the kids were young. He'd forgotten if his attire was entirely suitable. There was only Blake, and he was sure that between the two of them, no sartorial genius was about to erupt.

Blake at least had the sort of physique that ensured he looked good in almost anything. Gordon was fifty four years old and maintained a fitness routine that ensured he could at least successfully carry out a spontaneous police chase if need be, but he was no Olympian. The fact remained that he was a middle-aged man and a certain fatigue when it came to working out was perhaps to be expected.

Grand Avenue of the Theatre District was an area Gordon preferred to avoid due to the hordes of tourists, shady street vendors and excessive traffic but tonight was an exception. The flashing lights and billboards of the newer shows couldn't detract from the stately architecture of the old operahouse, still standing almost a hundred years after its creation. Other audience members were steadily streaming in, dressed elegantly as such a venue required. Women in silk and satin, men in tuxedos. The environment smacked of Old Gotham, when these events were less about watching the performers and more about being seen out and about with illustrious members of society.

They arrived half an hour before the show was to begin so they could find their seats. Daggett had purchased seats on the ground floor, just one row behind the orchestra pit. As their usher showed them to their seats, she innocently added, "I hope you and your boyfriend enjoy the show."

The two men sat down, Blake in the aisle seat and Gordon on his right. Blake stared at his boss with barely concealed humor in his eyes.

"Not. A. Word." Gordon said, casually thumbing through the evening's program.

Blake opened up his program to read the synopsis of the story since he was unfamiliar with it. Gordon already knew the story because of his daughter's lifelong obsession with the ballet and her compulsive need to tell all in the family what she knew.

Giselle was a young maiden in Rhineland who fell in love with a nobleman who was, as always in these sorts of tales, already engaged to another woman of similar social standing. Giselle dies of heartache and turns into an ethereal spirit. She protects her duplicitous lover from the vengeful spirits of jilted brides who met a similar end to that of Giselle's. Her complete forgiveness of her lover's betrayal saves him from death, as she dances with him until the dawn when the spirits retreat back to their graves.

"Morbid, isn't it?" Blake asked when he finished.

Gordon paid him no mind as he read the biographies of the principal dancers. Well, there was only one that he was truly looking for.

_Born in Milan, Italy, Giulia Sforza began her study of ballet at the prestigious La Scala Ballet Theatre at the age of seven. She trained under renowned French ballerina Sylvie Guillem, who first directed her as Giselle in her 2004 London production, among many others. She has reprised her role as the doomed maiden with Gotham Conservatory of Dance and the School of Classical Ballet. _

_This will be Sforza's penultimate performance with the Conservatory, where she has been a member of the ballet company since her transfer from La Scala, although her haunting portrayal of Giselle will never be forgotten._

The accompanying photo was true to her appearance, he saw her half-smile that hinted at secret thoughts no one would ever be privy to.

"Boss, it's starting!" Blake whispered rather redundantly since the orchestra began to tune their instruments, signalling the imminent beginning of the performance. The lights dimmed and a hush fell over the audience. The series of red velvet curtains lifted and the stage lights brightened until the set was visible—a quaint village that hinted at rolling green hills and the summer grape harvest. There were facades of wooden cottages, and some trees scattered about the stage.

Albrecht, the duke disguised as the peasant Loys, schemed to flirt with the maiden who lived within the main cottage, against the advice of his hapless squire. Blake shifted in his seat, a little discomfited by seeing a man in tights, no matter how graceful a dancer he was. Just then, after 'Albrecht' pantomimed a knock on the door, he stepped back to hide around the corner of the cottage wall and the orchestra struck a lively, floating tune.

The door suddenly opened and out ran Giulia Sforza light on her feet, dressed in the costume of a spring maiden. Her hair flowed down her back, and her happy smile didn't look contrived. She executed a series of jumps in a joyous circle about the stage, looking for Albrecht whom she suspected was the one who knocked on her door. The story progressed until the time came for Albrecht's true identity to be revealed. Giulia Sforza's eyes welled with tears at the sight of her lover with the elegant woman to whom he was truly betrothed.

Her death scene was unsettling in its raw honesty. Her every movement affected such sadness that it was at times difficult to remember that the staging and choreography had already been rehearsed hundreds of times before. There was a moment when she simply stood in first position, staring bleakly out into the audience, her vision probably obscured by the bright stage lights. Gordon knew she couldn't see him yet he was struck by her devastation. Despite what any critic might say, and as far as Gordon could tell, she was by all accounts a talented artist and a very gifted dancer. When she danced the pas-de-deux with Albrecht, now dressed in a voluminous white dress, it became challenging to remember that the reason he and Blake were here was to be on the lookout for suspicious activity that might affect her.

The scene where ghost-Giselle saved Albrecht's life allowed Giulia Sforza to really become her character—every arabesque, every pirouette was done with such anguish. Watching her was like escaping the forces that bound one to the earth. The emotions that chased over her features were visible from where they were sitting.

Once again, he'd forgotten how it felt to watch her dance. Back when she inhabited the role of Odette, he didn't appreciate the art that went into it. He was only obliging his young daughter's fancy and trying to get his son to sit quietly, with thoughts of his latest case lingering through his mind. Now, he saw as if for the first time the fluid lines of her lean dancer's body, the positioning of her delicate hands and arms. The music swelled with her despair, eased with her peaceful acceptance. Somehow, he got the sense that the shimmering tears in her eyes weren't feigned.

During the final curtain call, he was unashamed to applaud vigorously in spite of Blake's scrutiny beside him.

They left the theatre silently, moving with the crowds. When they exited into the chilly night, Gordon told Blake that they should pay their compliments to Mrs. Sforza backstage. Blake agreed and they set about finding the backstage entrance. Walking through the alleyway and around, they caught sight of some of the ensemble cast leaving.

Just before the heavy door shut, Gordon pushed it open and went inside. With Blake at his shoulder, they made their way past members of the cast and crew who were busy cleaning the set and dressing rooms. Right when Gordon reached the end of the hallway near the stage door that was left slightly ajar, Giulia Sforza emerged, still fully made-up and costumed. The illusion of the young spring maiden had slowly evaporated as she rejoined the world. Gordon felt a pang of sadness that it had to be so.

"Commissioner! What on earth are you doing here?"

"We had the honor of watching tonight's performance, courtesy of John Daggett."

Her eyes clouded over at the mention of that name.

"Here to protect me from a bogey man?"

"Let us escort you home at least." Gordon pleaded softly.

In the interest of deflecting any wayward attention from her fellow cast members, she relented.

"I need to change. You can wait for me out there."

Gordon nodded, giving Blake a look that beckoned him out of the theatre. Their backs were turned as they exited the now near empty hallway, so neither of them noticed the hooded figure at the other end. Mrs. Sforza didn't either, as she shut and locked her dressing room door. The dark figure hesitated for a moment, before slinking out the door that led to the wing on stage left.

It took her only fifteen minutes to remove all of her stage makeup and don street clothes. The costume she left behind in the dressing room for the final performance the following night. Gordon carried her gym bag full of her pointe shoes and who knows what else, while Blake hopped into the driver's seat and started the engine.

He sat next to her in the back of the car. Taking in her post-performance appearance, Gordon thought she looked drained. Because of the depth of emotion she'd needed to make her role convincing, she was quiet and pensive now, staring but not seeing. Like the life had seeped out of her and she needed to recuperate. Not many people, Gordon included, realized how challenging it was to be a regularly employed dancer for a major company. Her posture was slack, for once she was allowing herself to lean back into the seat.

"It was really something, how you danced tonight," he said plainly.

Turning from the car window, she raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

"I'm touched that you would sit through an entire performance just to escort me home, Commissioner. And I rather thought you'd bring your daughter, not your Officer Blake, with you."

Blake heard her and chuckled.

"It was my pleasure, Mrs. Sforza. You're a great dancer."

"Thank you, officer." She accepted his praise humbly. She focused her attention back at Gordon. "Did you find out anything new?"

Gordon met her eyes and nodded.

"John Daggett is up to something with the underground tunnel system of the city and refuses to come clean about what he's really trying to do. Our next step is to sit down with Miranda Tate."

"Miranda? She's an old friend of mine. We met in Zurich when she came to see me in a production of _Firebird_. She can't possibly be involved."

"We don't know anything definitively," He demurred.

"Why don't you have more people working on this other than the both of you?"

It was a valid question. If the Police Commissioner felt it was important enough to warrant a full-scale investigation, he would assemble a fully-equipped task force but he felt it best to fly under the radar for now while they gathered information. There were too many holes that needed to be filled before that happened.

"I like to set up the chess board in my favor before the enemy realizes what's happening."

"At this point, Commissioner, I feel like a pawn in your game. A well-looked after, secure pawn but a pawn nevertheless. I do not like to be manipulated, you should know that about me."

He didn't know what drove him to do it, but he placed his hand on her bare forearm to placate her. Her skin was warm beneath his own, it was the second time he'd ever touched her. Gordon wondered if he was going to make a habit of it. She stared expressionlessly at his hand and then at his face.

"Mrs. Sforza, we're on your side. You have to trust us for a little while longer and I promise you that you'll never have a reason to fear for your life again."

It was enough. She released her breath as if she didn't know she's been holding it, and he realized his hand was still on her arm. He stroked her gently with his thumb before he scooted further away to his side of the seat. Blake observed the exchange surreptitiously through the rearview mirror.

Some minutes later, they pulled up on her street and stopped in front of her steps.

"Thank you for the ride home, Officer Blake. Goodnight, Commissioner Gordon."

Without another word, she tugged her gym bag out of Gordon's hands and flew over the steps to her front door. They waited patiently for her to get her key out, open the door and go inside, disappearing from their sight. Gordon got out of the back and took the passenger's seat.

"Commissioner, don't take this the wrong way but I think…"

"What, rookie?" His tone held a note of warning.

"I think you're a little sweet on her."

"Don't be stupid. That would breach protocol and violate several of GCPD's ethical codes. Not to mention my own personal principles."

"If it looks like a duck, sounds like a duck, quacks like a duck then it probably IS a duck. I'm just calling it like I see it, sir."

Blake's tone was jaunty and Gordon realized that his immediate denial hinted at the polar opposite of what he meant to say.

"One more word and I'll suspend you without pay."

There was blessed silence the rest of the way back to GCPD headquarters.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I revised like crazy but I'm still not sure about this chapter...Although I have to admit I had fun writing about Gordon and Blake at a ballet. :P Never thought I'd plunk those two into a situation like that, but the opportunity presented itself. If you would like to see the performance that inspired the way I wrote the dance scene, go to youtube and look up Alina Cojocaru as Giselle. That death is scene really is devastating. This was one of the shorter chapters but I promise I'll make up for it in the next one. As always, please don't hesitate in dropping me a review and letting me know what you think! Thank you for your support, those of you that have already reviewed, especially IcyWaters!


	4. And in these halcyon days

**Ch. 4**

In truth, it was easy to see why Miranda Tate and Giulia Sforza were friends, Gordon thought. A cynic would label them as the ultimate bleeding hearts. They contributed to similar causes, each were possessed of similar personalities and mannerisms that might have led some to believe they were sisters. Miranda Tate was notoriously private as well, and trying to set up an appointment with a very busy executive was nearly a coup when he succeeded.

He'd arranged to meet the reclusive Ms. Tate through her secretary, whose number was provided by Mrs. Sforza. That was how, on an overcast Monday afternoon, the Commissioner was sitting alone at a beautifully prepared table at Fox Gardens in the Fashion District.

He watched other customers at their tables, some men in suits chatting reservedly, while there were also well-dressed housewives sipping on champagne despite the earliness of the hour. He supposed that was the thing to do, if you lived that life. Gordon took care to wear an ironed blue cotton dress shirt and creased grey slacks. He brought a black sport coat, the first he ever purchased after making sergeant, and hoped there weren't any holes caused by hungry moths he hadn't spotted before he left for work that day.

That didn't mean that he felt comfortable in an environment like this. He surveyed the pristinely polished utensils arranged before him, the gold trimmings on the plates. The entire dining set probably cost more than his entire disposable income when he was a beat cop. If you drove out to where the Diamond District overlapped with Old Gotham, you'd still find families scraping by on far less than the national average income. The disparity was easy to forget about if you spent all of your time in places like this.

They were supposed to meet at precisely noon and thirty two minutes after, the woman hadn't shown up yet. He was contemplating leaving a note with the maitre d', but right when he stood he was confronted by a dark haired woman in a collared white blouse tucked primly into a knee length pencil skirt. She looked apologetic as she strode toward him in her high heels and greeted him with a firm handshake that suggested a career in the corporate world.

"I'm so, so sorry Commissioner Gordon! The board meeting ran a little overtime and there was the traffic of the lunch rush. Have you ordered?"

"No harm done, and no I haven't ordered yet."

"You must try the baked salmon and lobster here. It's the freshest in the whole city."

He marveled at her as a waiter immediately responded to her raised hand and came to jot down their orders.

"We'll have two of the salmon-lobster specials. A mineral water for me, with a twist of lemon too. And for you?—"

"I'll have tap, thank you," He interjected.

"Very good madam, sir." The waiter left them alone and Gordon felt a rush of impatience to get to business.

"Do you have any idea why I wanted to meet you today, Ms. Tate?"

She settled her purse on the empty chair next to him. She seemed relaxed, her eyes unshuttered, compared to her colleague Daggett. He wondered if this was a front while she calculated her next moves in the belief that he suspected nothing. If it were so, she was a damned good actress. He knew he had to tread carefully.

"No, but Giulia practically sings your praises. She's not usually so trusting of high-level law enforcement, which means that I can trust you."

"You decide who to trust based on her input?"

"She is an uncanny judge of a person's true character."

Just then, the waiter reappeared with a pitcher of water and filled his glass to the top. He produced Ms. Tate's mineral water and then left them alone once more, with the practiced economy of movement instilled in waiters of this caliber.

"Mrs. Sforza hasn't mentioned the reason why she agreed to give me your contact information?" Gordon enquired politely.

"No," Miranda Tate scooted her chair in closer to the table. "Please, Commissioner, let's not beat around the bush. What is it?"

Without skipping a beat, he shifted gears and narrowed his eyes slightly.

"The break-in and burglary at her husband's penthouse was actually a botched attempt on her life. GCPD is investigating the possible reasons why anyone would want her dead and it comes down to Mr. Daggett and yourself, so you'd better start explaining before I have to haul you downtown. I'm here out of respect for you, or I would have sent in some rookies to collect you."

Ms. Tate's eyes widened but she made no sound that would make her reaction look overly surprised. Her breathing remained even, but her face turned pale in shock.

"She never said anything," She remarked in a pitch slightly higher than normal.

"Well she's been instructed to keep the knowledge to herself while we go about our investigation."

"What—and you think I had something to do with it?"

"There's some pretty damning evidence on your business partner John Daggett, who might have been acting on instructions from Mr. Sforza. That's motive. We all know you certainly have the means. Now opportunity remains to be seen-"

"Giulia is one of my closest friends, Commissioner."

"I've found that money trumps all, in most cases. If you testify against Daggett or Alessandro Sforza, you might be able to negotiate on jail time. I don't think Blackgate would be any good for a woman like you."

"I have nothing to do with what you're saying. You think I'm somehow implicated in this absurd plot? I know that Alessandro and Giulia don't see eye to eye but I can't believe that he'd do—_that!" _She hissed, hoping to avoid attracting unwanted attention from the surrounding tables.

Her ire grew exponentially when she saw him raise a single eyebrow in response, as if to say that he could see right through her. Anger wasn't an expression that suited her face. One of the most noticeable traits that Miranda Tate shared with Mrs. Sforza was her level-headedness. To see Ms. Tate give in to her anger was disconcerting, to say the least.

"Let me explain something to you. When my father died, I didn't leave my house for days. I mourned him so deeply that I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. Giulia took care of me without me asking. I hated her for it when I most wanted to be alone, but she knew what that feels like, to be abandoned and have_ no one_." She paused for a breath. She made impassioned indignation look quite fetching, but Gordon felt that something was still…_off_ about Miranda Tate.

"I'm the one who stayed with her in the hospital when Alessandro first left, after she miscarried their first child. I won't tolerate your baseless accusations because I'm the one who picked up the pieces of her life when no one else would help her!"

There was an intensely uncomfortable moment of silence. Ms. Tate suddenly deflated, ashamed that she revealed such a private thing about her friend to a stranger. The gravity of it shocked him deeply. Mr. Sforza's callousness was utterly unconscionable but knowing what he did of the investment banker, Gordon shouldn't have been so surprised.

He would deal with this knowledge later, for now he had to get Ms. Tate back on topic. After all, there wasn't anything solid that connected her to the two men in GCPD lockup but she still might have valuable information.

"I apologize for offending you, Ms. Tate. It wasn't my intention."

"When is it ever, with you people?" Tate said with mild irony, but with her composure regained.

"The sewer tunnels, I need to know what renovations are being done. Thus far, no one's been willing to come forward."

She sat, her back impossibly straight as she stared him down and he waited patiently for her to speak.

"Gotham's unemployment rate has been on the rise in the past five years. Higher paying jobs are going to those people with graduate degrees and at least a few years of solid work experience. The number of unskilled workers is growing because the children who were orphaned due to mob violence are now coming of age. Through my Clean Energy Project, we're able to alleviate this pressure on the economy by providing jobs to these young adults."

Gordon jotted this down in his notepad, he found he was filling the pages more substantially than he'd done in a long time. When he finished he looked back up at her.

"I assume your managers went through all the proper legal paperwork and such. I'd hate to learn that half of your employees are underage without work permits. And Daggett's construction crews, what exactly are they working on that they don't want the DWP to know?"

"We're simply repairing the deterioration that poses a threat to any contractors and district crews who might inspect the tunnels. Gotham's sewer line carries approximately one million gallons of wastewater to the D'Angelo Treatment Plant, of which there's a twenty five percent chance it might spill into the ocean by accident. Our engineers have advised us that immediate repairs are necessary, for the sake of the environment. I authorized the project and provided for the startup costs. It's a win-win situation, Commissioner, but I understand why there might be legal troubles…Sometimes, you just can't afford to wait for the system."

An image of the Batman flashed through Gordon's mind, forbidding and untouchable, above the system, as Ms. Tate inadvertently reminded him.

The waiter arrived with their fish, presenting them their dishes as swiftly as possible as he'd overheard snippets of their heated conversation.

He stared at the forks, wondering which to pick up first, when he heard Barbara's voice in his head tell him '_Start from the outside.'_ He speared a piece of the creamy salmon and bit into it, letting the flavors fill his senses.

"Delicious, isn't it?" Ms. Tate asked solicitously, eager to see if she'd made a successful recommendation, or perhaps just eager to change the subject.

"It is, indeed."

* * *

The rich food at lunch put Gordon into something of a food coma. It was yet another reminder that the wining-and-dining was now an occupational hazard, he thought with no small amount of self-deprecation. He returned to his office slightly drowsy, but determined to sort through what he'd learned from Miranda Tate. He sensed that there was far more fueling her act of goodwill than what she revealed on the surface. In truth he understood her need to bypass the normal legislative channels. Why would she subject her initiative to them when she clearly had enough time, money and capital to devote to such a project?

And yet, that didn't explain why Daggett would get involved with such a good-hearted endeavor unless it benefited him in some way. Something wasn't adding up. He needed a second person to run his muddled thoughts by. Trying to piece facts together without setting up a war room was considerably difficult.

Gordon strode toward Blake's tiny desk and found the young man sitting in his chair, staring blankly at his computer screen. His walkie was spouting words that were indistinguishable if one didn't listen closely, a kaleidoscope of police codes and cop-speak that once might have confused a rookie but now were the clear signifiers of chaos.

"What's wrong?" Gordon asked as he came to stand behind Blake's swivel chair.

Blake jumped when he realized his boss was there but wasn't quick enough to minimize the screen before Gordon gently pushed him aside to have a look.

"This is city property, rookie," He said mock-exasperatedly.

He read the updated police report entry on the screen—just a few minutes old, reading that a teenager at the tender age of sixteen had been found dead in one of the main outflows of the city's underground tunnel system. The cause of death was drowning.

Gordon peered back at Blake, noticing his creased brow and agitated expression.

Without further prompting the younger man swiveled to face Gordon fully.

"This is the fourth kid they've found washed up in the basin. It's _gotta_ be Daggett. Put me on this case officially. Things aren't what they seem, Commissioner."

The Sforza-Daggett case was beginning to broaden ominously and it was clear to both men that there was far more to this than met the eye. These deaths were solid facts, facts that could give them leverage against the construction mogul.

Doubts about whether it was the right call to keep the details down to just two people began to grow in Gordon's head. Surely in all of his experience he knew that they could accomplish more with a full task force and all of GCPD's brain power to back them up? Gordon thought of Foley, should he be notified of what they were up to? He was a good subordinate most of the time despite what Gordon might privately think of him.

And yet it seemed like it could easily go south, if they weren't able to dig up any more substantial evidence then a task force of that size was more likely to offend and alienate those in the upper echelon of Gotham society—never a good move for a man appointed by the mayor to this position. Gordon felt disgusted by himself; he'd always claimed that politics never influenced his decision making as an officer.

Harvey Dent was the biggest secret he'd ever kept from anyone. If he was going to execute this correctly, he wanted to do it efficiently. Blake made a worthy assistant, and Gordon told himself that between the two of them they could bring Daggett to justice. Another secret kept was a reasonable price to pay for that kind of success. Even if he felt his morals bending to fit his desires to suit his own admittedly warped sense of justice.

Lord, let it never be said that he couldn't rationalize things away like the rest of them! Just then, Gordon arrived at his decision.

"Alright. Go with the Crime Scene Unit and the coroner and take the witness' statements."

Blake didn't need to be told twice. Gordon suspected that Blake's empathy for a young street rat extended from his background. He watched sadly as Blake exited the bustling squad room.

Gordon was doing paperwork in his office when Blake got back later that afternoon. The younger man looked troubled when he sat in the chair in front of the Commissioner's desk. He started speaking without any attempt at a preamble.

"It turns out I knew that kid they found. They took him to the morgue since the cause of death is suspicious. His name was Jimmy, he was from the same place I came from."

Gordon was taken aback by the name, the same as his son's, and a version of his own, come to think of it.

"I took some time to go to the boy's home, to tell his next of kin. He had a little brother called Mark."

The corners of Blake's mouth tightened.

It was grief, Gordon knew, that caused the hitches in the young man's normally fluid speech. He'd not yet experienced what it was like, to lose a witness, or a source to the forces that proved to be far mightier than a single cop no matter his intentions. He remained quiet as Blake finished what he needed to say.

"Mark said that as soon as the boys age out of the home, they immediately go looking for work in the tunnels. He didn't say much more than that, but then he didn't have to. I know in my gut that Daggett's men drove that kid to his death. And who knows how many others."

The stone cold rage in Blake's eyes spurred a sense of urgency in his boss. Gordon knew where that rage could take a man and it wasn't a place he'd ever wish anyone visit.

"John, believe me the bastard will get what's coming to him but we've gotta play our hand wisely and we've got to do this by our rules. The mafia was tough but nobody's tougher than the fat cats who act like they can rewrite the rulebook however they want. The law has to speak for itself, or what good is our code in the end?"

Gordon paused to remove his glasses and set them on his desktop.

"You know, rookie, there's gonna be a day when you step up and the only person you should count on is yourself. I won't be…here forever."

Blake looked slightly confused at this tangential statement but he nodded anyway. Gordon cursed inwardly. This wasn't the time to be dropping ambiguous hints. He shifted gears a little.

"We need an ally, someone who can get us in where we can't go without raising red flags with the Mayor."

Blake noticed the speculative gleam in his boss's eyes.

"Harvey Dent Day is coming up. The Memorial Dinner will be brimming with information if we can search it out. I can't go unless I'm working security. And I won't be much use to you from the sidelines." Blake mused.

Gordon nodded, now appearing a little distracted.

Blake stood slowly, straightening out his jacket before his face morphed from its previous dour expression to a look full of mischief.

"You'll have to ask her soon, don't you? The dinner's in three days."

The fact that the junior officer knew exactly who Gordon was thinking of registered in his mind but didn't slow the momentum of his thoughts.

"It might draw unwanted attention. I've never brought a guest to the dinner before."

"You just said that we need an ally who's completely comfortable with Daggett and his entourage. I can't think of a better person. And if it's the idea of approaching her that makes you nervous, I think that she's a little sweet on you too."

Blake hightailed it out of the Commissioner's office after being subjected to his infamous glare.

* * *

Harvey Dent Day was most certainly not an occasion that the Commissioner enjoyed. It was an unabashedly glitzy dinner that seemed to focus less on the tragedy of Dent's demise, which he supposed was rather the point, but the festivities' lavishness seemed to grow every year. Perhaps it retained special meaning to a few who truly knew him, but to Gordon it had began to feel like the city was just going through the motions for the past few years. He looked over his invitation distastefully; it was to be held on the grounds of the old Wayne Manor at the very heart where the city's old money families lived.

**_You are cordially invited to the eighth annual Harvey Dent Memorial dinner at Wayne Manor in Crest Hill, Gotham County. Please RSVP for yourself and one guest no later than October the 23__rd__ at 7:00 pm…_**

Gordon sighed and lay back onto his bed beside his rented tux where it lay rumpled atop his duvet. Blake had hit a nerve when he teased Gordon in his office. The younger man was right in his assessment of the advantage Mrs. Sforza brought them in this context but Gordon doubted she'd be willing to accompany him for this purpose. His intrusions on her personal life due to police business as well as his brush-off were two marks against him already. He wondered how he could invite her to the dinner in the most platonic manner possible and not come off as an ass. No matter which way he spun it, it looked pretty inevitable.

On another note, he was once more contemplating revealing what really happened to the ill-fated District Attorney and the truth about the Batman. He'd seriously looked at the now careworn speech he'd written before the first one of these blasted dinners, imagined himself delivering it. It was partly the reason he began to drop hints of his resignation to Blake.

He rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses and picked up the manila folder he'd dropped on top of his tux a few minutes ago. The paper was crisp, fresh off the presses so to speak. The Mayor's security detail passed their background checks and vetting reports to GCPD, something that was easy to get a hold of. He wanted to know who'd be there and start devising a strategy.

He scanned over it quickly to see how many familiar names were there and was not so surprised to see Daggett, Stryver and Miranda Tate were included. His eyes continued to run past the last names that began with S before he did a double take and went back to right before Stryver's name.

Giulia Sforza was conveniently on the Dent Dinner invitation list.

It was to be expected that Gotham's most eminent benefactress would be included but for some reason his chances of running into her in one way or another seemed to increase by the day. She'd not yet sent in her RSVP though, meaning that she wasn't planning on attending as there was only one day more before the deadline. Gordon wondered if she was simply heeding his instructions to stay away from danger—attending a social function at a Gothic Manor where her alleged assassins would also be was definitely an unwise course of action.

Gordon thought of her, wondered if she'd be willing to play at being a sleuth for an evening. She moved expertly through events just like these, as far as he's seen, as her elegant carriage and inherent charisma made her the consummate guest.

What if she declined? She didn't seem like media scrutiny bothered her. She'd weathered probably the worst of it because of her husband so a night on Jim Gordon's arm was hardly gonna rock the boat. Yet he was still wary of the possible conflict of interest that could arise from any further contact with Mrs. Sforza. Her case was still subject to debate in the Justice Department, whether extraditing her husband from Italy was possible.

The catalyst for this divisive tug-of-war between factions of his mind came in the form of the incorrigible Officer John Blake, who took the initiative to remind him of his task by leaving a stapled magazine article on Gordon's desk. There was a post-it slapped on right next to the title that read, '_Happy reading_!'

He'd torn off the note and chucked it in the trash can beneath his desk but he made sure to shut his door before he began to read. Blake was becoming utterly insufferable; no one would dare tease Gordon about a woman like he did. The rest of his team walked around him on eggshells in that particular aspect—they'd all encountered Barbara at one point whether it was when she'd surprise him with lunch on occasion or bring baskets of homemade pastries for every cop in MCU.

The editorial on Mrs. Sforza reflected her understated taste; she wore draped silks and cashmere sweaters. In one picture, she was alone in the middle of an empty ballroom. Her hair was wildly curling and the skillful photographer managed to capture her right when she'd flown into a grand jeté. Only her profile was visible but he'd know the curve of her nose and cheek anywhere.

_Truly a force of nature, Giulia Caterina Sforza has shown the world that giving back to her community is a worthwhile endeavor. Her impressive donations and volunteer projects to rebuild Gotham have proved their worth in higher literacy rates among elementary school children in public schools downtown, a beautifully constructed library, and lower instances of homelessness in the immediate area near Crime Alley._

_When she isn't working with disadvantaged youth or teaching history of classical ballet at Gotham State University, she takes a pointe ballet class at Gotham's Conservatory. Ever humble, she admits she's lost the agility of her youth but it's all about striving to be her best that fulfills her. Regardless, audiences are still captivated by her lightness of foot and her near legendary brand of grace that allows her to defy the laws of physics onstage._

"_I find that now, at this age, it is far easier to be relaxed about everything. What frightened me as a young woman in Gotham has shaped me into who I am now and I am grateful despite it all. I sense that more and more people are getting involved in improving this community and that they can carry on what we've started. It's a safer place now, thanks to so many brave men and women in the Justice Department and law enforcement."_

Turning the page, there was a picture of her from a distance, dashing through a dirt covered path toward the camera. She was grinning mischievously, her lips pulled back to expose her teeth and her loose hair completely blown back by her forward momentum. He'd never seen her smile like that in person. There were autumn leaves falling around her, in front of her, so perfectly timed that he was almost convinced that it was a candid shot by a friend and not carefully orchestrated by a director.

"_Those days when I feel most alone, I remind myself that solitude is a blessing and go for long runs. Through the parks, near the river. I love to be near the river," She gestures to the tall windows of her living room where she chose to be interviewed._

"_I entertain a small circle of friends. They are quite protective of me, and I of them. I cook for them," Sforza admits with a little laugh._

_When asked of the future and possibly finding new love, Giulia Sforza casts her eyes down to her lap. _

"_I cannot blame the past nor the present for the way things are now. I love my life but I wouldn't want to spend the rest of it alone. Whether I will be lucky enough remains to be seen. I won't tempt fate by elaborating further."_

Gordon shut the magazine article a little more forcefully than necessary into his desk drawer. He knew her better through printed articles, newspaper clippings and police reports. He was beginning to feel a little bit like a stalker and he didn't particularly relish the thought.

When at last Gordon couldn't stand his internal debate any further, he poured himself a scotch and took a swig just before he hit the 'call' button on his phone.

It rang four times. He expected it to go straight to her answering machine. He hoped she wouldn't think it uncouth of him to call her landline instead of her business number but by the time he'd thought of it, it was too late.

"Hello?" Her voice washed over him, and his heart rate jolted.

"…Mrs. Sforza. This is Commissioner Gordon," He said, feeling mildly stupid at his own formality.

"I hope you aren't calling to tell me more bad news. I've already noticed a car parked outside my home on odd days of the week. You've appointed me a guard without my consent, haven't you?"

He sat up in bed, alarmed by her unreadable tone.

"I thought it a necessary precaution." He answered honestly.

There was hardly a pause before she shot back her reply.

"I must thank you for your vigilance then. I assure you no harm has befallen me since we last met. Now, how may I help you?"

And just like that his purpose shot swiftly through him. He clutched the invitation tightly in his left hand.

"Yes, uhm…This is…perhaps somewhat awkward but would you…" He trailed off as he swallowed audibly. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Harvey Dent memorial ceremony tomorrow evening?"

There, now he couldn't take the words back.

"I find it odd that you'd call me to ask me to go with you considering how you nearly bolted out of my house that time you visited me. What else are you not telling me?"

The woman was sharp. He'd forgotten, to his embarrassment.

"There've been some new developments. Your case is not just your own anymore."

"Meaning?"

"A series of deaths are being linked to Daggett's movements in the city tunnels. We're trying to strengthen the connection between them and the attempt on your life."

"Who else has died?" Her voice was hard, effectively disguising any shock.

"Orphans, street kids who find work with Daggett and Tate. Ms. Tate herself has told me that they employ underage workers. I doubt these kids have work permits, and Daggett pays them in cash so there's no paper trail. They're obviously violating several labor laws. Four of the kids have been found washed up in the past month. It's only now that a connection has become more apparent."

"My God. That's…that's terrible." Her voice had lowered to a whisper. "You talked to Miranda?"

"She agreed to a business lunch."

"You're not going to tell me what you discussed." Her tone was flat, like she already knew his answer. It didn't bode well for him.

"It's against policy to do so at this stage."

There was silence but he pictured her nodding.

"I still find it hard to believe that my best friend may have been involved in a hit on my life."

"Then help us, Mrs. Sforza. If you come with me to the dinner, we can gather information together. We'll find the answers that neither of us can by ourselves."

Silence again. She was weighing her options. He heard her intake of breath and he found that his pulse quickened with anxiety.

"…Fine. I'll go."

Gordon breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He sat up on his bed, pressing his phone slightly tighter against his ear. His eyes traveled over his tuxedo beside him, the reality of the situation cementing rather quickly in his mind.

"I'll pick you up at your place around six."

"—And to think I'd tossed the invitation as soon as I received it."

"I will RSVP for the both of us then. I'll bid you goodnight Mrs. Sforza."

Suddenly, her voice rang out urgently across the line.

"Will you please call me Giulia?"

He was surprised at the liberty she was allowing him. He felt he could only extend the same to her as a courtesy.

"You should call me Jim," His voice was hesitant.

"Alright."

"Goodnight Giulia."

There was a pause and then she responded.

"_Buona note_, Jim."

* * *

Jim Gordon stood in the sharpest suit he owned, on her doorstep, at precisely six fifteen the next evening. He'd rung the doorbell twice but there was no answer. He waited several more moments, clutching the single white rose in his right hand. It might've been a bit overcompensating on his part. He'd only wanted to be polite and thank her in some way for agreeing to suffer an evening of people who were more concerned about networking than actually paying their respects to the fallen district attorney.

He shifted his weight twice, staring at the shiny tops of his black leather dress shoes that he took the time to polish. Then the white glass door opened and he jerked his head up.

For the shortest moment, the fact that this was a business alliance slipped his mind. Her hair was swept back to reveal her darkened eyelids and nude lips. On her ears hung diamonds fashioned in the shapes of miniature chandeliers. Her gown had a fitted lace bodice with long sleeves and a demure neckline, and a skirt that flared gently outward from the narrowest part of her waist where the black lade ended.

The black silk of the skirt rippled sumptuously as she walked, hinting at the slim silhouette of her legs. He raised the flower up to her neutrally but feared that his expression betrayed him.

What did she mean by outfitting herself like this? Was it intentional, did special effort go into her appearance for the night? He wasn't very comfortable with the idea and he felt the same way he did when he spoke to her in her house that first time.

"This is for you," was all he could manage at that moment.

Giulia—for he was allowed to think of her by her first name now—looked at him but didn't smile. She was carefully guarding herself, he could tell, and somewhat guiltily thought that she had good reason to.

"You didn't have to," She declared as she nevertheless accepted it and held it to her nose. "Thank you."

"I apologize once again for the last minute notice."

She shook her head, conveying it was no trouble.

"Let me fetch my_ mantella_ and we'll be off. Will you come inside?"

Following her lead, Gordon stepped into the entryway of her house. She pivoted on her silver satin-covered shoe. He nearly dropped his jaw when she spun around. While the front of her gown was indeed stunning, it was a study in refined demureness. The back dipped _just_ low enough to still be tasteful, ending just where there were two small, perfectly formed dimples that were proof of her toned dancer's body.

He dragged his eyes upward, struck by the thought that this might be her small vengeance for his rudeness before.

She disappeared into what he presumed was the kitchen. He heard the rustling of her movements but shortly after she reemerged, with the white rose pinned to the side of her hair. She cut the stem almost completely off. The gesture was strangely intimate; that she would take the gift he gave her and fasten it to her person.

He watched her open a small closet beneath the staircase, determined not to stare at her dainty shoulder blades as she rummaged through for her garment. She found it just in the nick of time, shutting the closet door and walking back to him while pulling what looked like a shortened, crème-colored cape over her shoulders and fastening the jeweled clasp around her neck.

It effectively hid the scandalous back of her gown, much to his relief.

"Jim?"

"Yes?"

"We'll be late if we dawdle any more than we already have."

He felt a little irritated at his reaction to her appearance, and it might have come through in his voice.

"Let's go."

He offered his arm to her and led her outside. He opened the car door for her and made sure she embarked comfortably. He climbed in after her and told his driver to go. Gordon ensured that the window between the driver's seat and the back was closed to give them maximum privacy.

They sat an acceptable distance apart, but it was difficult for him to avoid her gaze. She was staring at him unabashedly.

"So how are you?" Giulia ventured to ask. She angled herself toward him, leaning against the tinted window.

"A little…tired, maybe. And yourself?"

"I'm fine. Today I taught two classes after my three o'clock lecture at GSU."

"Sounds like a busy day," He remarked easily.

"Yes, yes it was rather a busy day."

When she didn't continue the conversation, he interpreted her reticence to mean that she wasn't sure if he'd be interested to hear more. The car rumbled quietly along and filled the silence between them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gordon could sense her shifting in her seat, like she was doing her best to restrain herself from fidgeting or otherwise convey her shyness. When it seemed she could bear it no longer, she drew a breath to speak.

"Are we going to sit here and force me to make idle small talk, or are you going to tell me what this is all about? Because I had a perfectly good plan to curl up with a book tonight."

It wasn't often that he turned up completely wrong about a person. She wasn't being shy at all. He must have looked a little taken aback by her brusqueness because she laughed at him.

"Spare me that, you made it perfectly clear how you wanted to define yourself in terms of me. You, the stern police commissioner, and I the helpless victim. Now you call me almost begging for help. So you can't blame me for wondering what, exactly, changed your mind."

"I told you already, last night."

"All you said was that four previously unrelated deaths can now be somewhat linked to my almost-murder."

"I have to admit, Mrs. Sforza, I don't know. I was hoping that we would play it by ear."

She fell back in her seat, the sound of her body thudding against the leather underscoring her exaggerated surprise.

"So you have no plan? And I'm going to be paraded around in front of the man who tried to kill me, as nothing more than your _bait?"_

It sounded pretty bad when phrased that way. He noticed her accent thickened as her ire grew. Gordon wondered how things could go so pear shaped when barely ten minutes had passed.

"If it's your safety you're worried about, you just have to make sure that you don't get caught alone with Daggett. Officer Blake as well as half of MCU will be there so I doubt they'd try anything in front of so many guns."

She laughed again, quietly, but it was devoid of any mirth.

"I think you've made the mistake that many people make."

"What's that?"

"You've put too much faith in me, and what I'm worth to those people."

The depth of her meaning was resonant to Gordon in that there were so many levels of disappointment, mistrust and what might have been resignation. It once more battered at him, to see the deadness in her eyes.

"Giulia, I'm not here to validate anyone's opinion of you. I asked you to come with me because you know how these people think, and I was hoping you'd shed some light on them. You know how it would rankle Daggett, to see you unafraid as if nothing happened."

His tone was gentle now, his irritation dissipated fully.

"Back to first names, are we?"

"Yes. And I apologize for the bad impression I made during your first interview, and that I might've encouraged just now. I assure you it was unintended."

He held out his hand for her to shake, hoping that they could make peace before the true battle. She eyed his hand but accepted his apology and shook it.

"I'm sorry as well, for my temper. It's in my blood it seems."

When they released each other, Gordon settled back into the seat and stared out the window at the darkness. Nothing was visible more than perhaps three feet away from the car but he found it somewhat calming. She seemed content to do the same. He thought of how it could've been had he gone it alone like he planned to, like he had so many times before.

The car ride continued in silence until she started to speak again, on another subject entirely. Grateful for her change of topic, he turned his full attention to her.

"The last time I went to Wayne Manor was for a charity ball by the Foundation, probably about four years ago. The place was splendid considering how it was completely burned down. It's so strange that they'd host the Dent dinner there."

"You think so?"

"Mmm," Mrs. Sforza made a noncommittal sound of affirmation. "The idea that a house can be rebuilt better than before, when a man's life can be extinguished in an instant, never to be reborn…is a bit cruel. Then again, I expect the committees that decide these things don't ponder philosophy as I do."

"My speech tonight might remind you of what you've just said. I…I sort of have touched upon the philosophical I suppose."

Understanding lit her eyes.

"Of course…you were there when he died."

Gordon nodded. The past flashed briefly through his mind and he unconsciously patted the spot where his speech was tucked into his overcoat.

Right at that moment, the little divider window lowered and his driver announced they were pulling up to the driveway of the manor. There was already a significant amount of traffic in the roundabout, so Gordon told his driver to stop quite a while back before they got too close to the manor in order for them to make a quick exit.

_This is it_, Gordon thought to himself.

His driver opened the door and Gordon slid out of the leather seat, turning to reach a hand out to her while she followed suit.

He tucked her arm snugly into the crook of his as they walked along with the rest of the crowd entering the reception. There was a line for the guest list but it was moving quickly. His driver left, and before he knew it he felt his picture being snapped by at least a few of the paparazzi. Photographers shouted directions at them, turn this way and that, smile, until he felt her move.

"People are looking at us," Giulia whispered, leaning her head closer to him so that only he could catch her words that carried slightly above the frantic clicking of telephoto lenses.

"Sorry," He felt irritated again that he always seemed to feel obligated to apologize to her for things beyond his control.

She smiled enigmatically and turned to face the offending photographers, while nestling into him a little more snugly. After a few seconds, she looked back at him with none of her former unease in her demeanor. It was astounding how different she was in the public eye. Two distinct personas blended into one woman, one fragile where the other was resilient.

"The way to deal with them is to always greet them with a smile, nothing more and nothing less," Giulia leaned closer again to whisper in his ear.

Her sudden nearness startled him, as well as the inadvertent opportunity to catch her intoxicating scent. Gordon wondered if this was a good idea after all, under the glare of what felt like a thousand paparazzo's cameras.

"Come on," He pulled her gently along as the line progressed ever forward. So far he recognized no one significant around them.

From the perimeter of the mansion grounds at his station, John Blake smirked at the sight of his boss and his lady.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I hope you guys are still with me! We're gonna get into the Dent Dinner now, with the addition of Giulia at the Commissioner's side. Please feel free to leave a review, tell me what you think, if there's something nit-picky. I really love reading reviews, so I can improve. :) I can't wait until TDKR dvd comes out because at the moment I'm writing the dialogue from the movie almost from memory and very hasty notes I jotted down while I watched the movie the one time, as well as context from other fics and other such Internet resources. Thank the lord for the Internet, haha. And it's super late in the night, I'm starting to ramble and I have a morning lecture to attend, so I'm going to log off now. Hah. (I'll ask one more time: please review? Sorry 'bout my incessant babbling, even in my writing...)


	5. Forged of flame and steel

**Ch. 5 **

They progressed until they reached the event manager with the guest list at the podium.

"Name, please?" The woman asked pleasantly.

"Commissioner James Gordon," He infused a little more authority into his tone than he normally did while introducing himself. He looked at his companion, wondering if he was meant to introduce her too. To his relief, she did it herself.

"Thank you, Commissioner, Madam Sforza. If you'll step through, someone will escort you to your table."

Once they were admitted to the party, Gordon was located almost immediately by his deputy, looking impressive in his black suit and tie. It was only too easy to mistake Foley as Gotham's Police Commissioner instead of his deputy if one were to guess solely by their respective appearances.

"Jim! Your seat is at our table, I'll take you over. And who do you have with you here?" Foley spoke quickly with a slightly pompous air that never ceased to irk his boss.

"Giulia Sforza," She replied before Jim could, holding out her right hand.

Foley grinned at her and shook her hand, looking from her to Jim and then back at her again. Gordon didn't know why Foley was pretending he didn't know exactly who she was—her name had been floating all around the office for a considerable number of days. Even so, she introduced herself without a hint of haughty offense.

"Would you please follow me?"

Gordon motioned for Giulia to precede him and the three of them moved through the crowd of various city and police officials as well as the requisite mix of socialites, magnates and tycoons until they finally arrived at their dinner table. It was a moderately sized table that sat six people; Gordon knew most of them as distant acquaintances.

The dinner tables were set up beneath several crème colored canopies that were draped artistically overhead. The entire event was well-lit, and the space had a warm glow about it. There was live music playing, alternating between soft jazz and big band. Lamp posts and heaters were scattered liberally through the grounds. Waiters and waitresses in immaculately pressed black and white uniforms moved about with silver trays and glass water pitchers.

He pulled out Giulia's chair as any gentleman would do and waited until she was seated to take his own. On his right sat Foley, his left Giulia.

"I hear we're getting French cuisine tonight. Whoever put this together made sure we wouldn't starve, eh?" Foley joked as he surveyed the surrounding party-goers. Gordon wanted to roll his eyes. Now there was a man who didn't much care for the art of conversation in favor of whatever food they were to be presented with. He couldn't pretend to be anything better than Foley in that aspect in any case, but at least he'd make an attempt to fit in with the high-brow atmosphere only if for a night. As if on cue, a waiter arrived with a bread bowl. Foley snagged a dinner roll and buttered it up without any guilt.

"Is it like this every year?" Giulia whispered.

He nodded, surveying his surroundings to ascertain whether the security measures lived up to what he had planned on paper. "There will be dancing later in the evening so please bear with me until after dinner."

"Do you see any others of your colleagues?" She asked, placing her hand upon the sleeve of his jacket.

"Not yet. I'm sure some will surface by the end of the night and Mayor Garcia will be arriving soon too, I think. I might have seen the DA back when we first entered. Do you see anyone you know?"

"A few people, here and there. But not anyone I'm particularly close to. I don't see Miranda anywhere."

"Ah, I don't quite believe it!"

Startled by the blatant interruption, Gordon whipped his head around to find the offender. He knew that voice and it seemed that Giulia did too because he noticed the change in her posture, at once sensing tension rise within her as she sat up even straighter than she usually did. A man in an expensive looking suit had ambled up to the table and taken the empty seat beside Giulia. She stared him down but didn't dignify his presence with any sort of greeting whatsoever.

"_La bella Sforza_ with our dear police Commissioner! What an unexpected sight."

When it seemed she could not speak, Gordon joined in the conversation.

"Good evening, Mister Daggett."

The men shook hands in front of Giulia, who quickly regained her composure.

"Mister Daggett is an old acquaintance," She said simply when the other man took her hand in greeting. She did her best to hide any nerves and to her credit, largely succeeded.

Daggett narrowed his eyes imperceptibly.

"That's not quite true. We go so far back together, don't we? I mean, I was Alessandro's best man at their wedding at the Castello Sforzesco. Is he not in Gotham currently?"

Gordon glanced at her, it was her move. She broke his gaze when she looked back at Daggett.

"Alessandro is in Capri at the moment."

_Lounging about with his mistress_, Gordon thought darkly. Daggett must know of it, or he wouldn't look so damned pleased to bring Mr. Sforza's indiscretion up so obliquely. Fortunately, Giulia still appeared largely unfazed.

"You know he still takes conference calls so if it's your business you're worried about you're more than welcome to contact him through official channels, John."

"I don't want to talk business tonight. We're here to remember Gotham's golden boy, aren't we? And incidentally, there happen to be far more interesting things to look out for." He stared pointedly at Giulia and then to Gordon.

Already, Gordon wanted to strangle the man. The veiled insinuations coming from a man who sought to end her life in a completely underhanded and cruel way chafed at Gordon's sense of restraint. At last, the final arrival at their table turned out to be Congressman Byron Gilly, who didn't look too happy to find his seat occupied by Mr. Daggett. The lawmaker's complexion had assumed a healthy reddish hue, hinting that he might have already imbibed in a drink or two.

After a moment of silence, Giulia spoke up.

"Congressman, I don't know if you've met my good friend Mister Daggett here." Giulia raised her voice to ensure she was heard by the slightly inebriated politician hovering over Daggett's shoulder. "Before you arrived, Mr. Daggett just expressed to me his interest in your reforms for the SEC and tax breaks for corporations. Would you care to elaborate to him what happens to those who violate the SEC's rules? I mean, what can a CEO get for…let's say insider trading?"

Gordon observed the stone cold rage that made itself as plain as the nose on Daggett's weasel face. That wasn't the way one looked at an old acquaintance at all. He desperately wanted to ward off the CEO despite his need to further observe him in close quarters.

When Daggett next spoke, his voice was significantly lower pitched for only those in the immediate vicinity to hear.

"You're one to talk. The obvious reason why you've been so involved in charity all these years is because it's one big fat tax break for Alessandro."

Everyone went still in shock. The sting of Daggett's words couldn't be ignored. Gordon surveyed the expressions of all those around and knew that Giulia's reaction was crucial in the next few seconds.

Gilly looked from Daggett's face to Mrs. Sforza, whose upturned face was at once beautiful and utterly ruthless.

"Oh—well I certainly wouldn't like to be accused of intentionally helping my husband or making things any easier for him. Yes, cuff me and send me to jail at once Commissioner, for I'm as guilty as Mister Daggett claims."

The entire table instantly broke out into amused laughter at her graceful riposte. Gordon forced himself to smile, thinking that she was treading on thin ice and doing a damn fine job of it as she merely called the waiter over to take their orders.

Gilly's intrusion into Daggett's personal space finally compelled the man to vacate the congressman's seat. Giulia didn't betray her relief until Daggett was finally out of the immediate vicinity. Gordon watched her relax into her chair, her shoulders dropping imperceptibly.

Dinner arrived promptly after they'd informed the waiter of their meat preferences. Giulia requested the duck à la l'orange and he asked for a filet mignon which was succulent and tender and far tastier than anything he'd been able to make for himself at home. The expensive wine that accompanied their dishes washed deliciously over the palate but Gordon felt anything but relaxed once their dinner was cleared away and the ceremony began in earnest.

It was almost time for his speech. One of the event planner's assistants approached the table to escort him to the podium just as the Mayor was beginning his own commemorative speech. Before he stood up, Giulia grasped his hand and squeezed. He returned her gesture and rose fully, feeling the weight of his old speech in his jacket pocket.

Gordon strode impassively toward the front of the lawn where he was made to wait patiently as the mayor spoke, he stared at the large mounted picture of Harvey Dent. The sharp featured, sandy haired district attorney who'd locked up more than three hundred of Gotham's criminals in a single day. The man who also, held Jimmy at gunpoint, engulfed in the most potent mix of rage and grief for Rachel Dawes. Gordon exhaled abruptly; he wished he'd knocked back something stronger than a single glass of wine.

"Harvey Dent Day may not be our oldest public holiday," Mayor Anthony Garcia declared, "but we're here tonight because it's one of the most important. Harvey Dent's uncompromising stand against organized crime and, yes, ultimately, his sacrifice, have made Gotham a safer place than it was at the time of his death, eight years ago."

Jim rocked back on his heels slightly, listening with only half an ear. He saw some people approach Giulia, a woman and maybe her spouse and his senses were on full alert. He relaxed his stance only when he saw that they were asking for her autograph. He was compelled to wonder if that sort of thing would be frowned upon here, but in any case most attention was directed toward the Mayor.

"This city has seen a historic turnaround," the mayor continued from his position at the podium."No city is without crime. But this city is without organized crime, because the Dent Act gave law enforcement teeth in its fight against the mob."

Gordon forced his attention back to Garcia and began to pull out his rumpled old speech from his jacket pocket. His hand trembled slightly at the gravity of his intent. Regardless of Mrs. Sforza, Gordon's attendance here was supposed to serve two purposes.

"Now people are talking about repealing the Dent Act. And to them I say...not on my watch!"

The mayor was applauded heartily by the upper echelon of Gotham's elite society, who knew perhaps better than most about the benefits of peacetime with respect to the growth of their bank accounts and investments in the past eight years.

"I want to thank the Wayne Foundation for hosting this event," he continued, comfortably accepting the applause with the gravitas of a politician who had gotten used to being liked. "I'm told Mr. Wayne couldn't be with us tonight, but I'm sure he's with us in spirit. Now I'm going to give way to an important voice," The mayor raised his right arm to point out Gordon's presence below the dais.

"Jim Gordon can tell you the truth about Harvey Dent, so I'll let him tell you himself. Commissioner Gordon?"

The mayor took several steps back while applauding for his Commissioner as Gordon replaced him at the microphone. He stared out at the expectant faces before him, and the rapid flashing of cameras, feeling much like a preacher who hadn't taken the time to adequately prepare his Sunday sermon. He saw Giulia, seated beside Daggett, and he was seized by doubt. He knew that if he went through with this speech that he composed years ago, he wouldn't be able to focus on anything related to her case, which was the only reason he'd invited her to this thing. He wondered if clearing his conscience while chasing leads on an active case was possible. He lingered on it, and then knew his answer.

"The truth? I…I have written a speech telling the truth about Harvey Dent," Gordon admitted, making up his mind. He folded up his papers and shoved them back into his jacket pocket. "But maybe the time isn't right."

After scanning the crowd methodically from left to right, he looked at Giulia again without even meaning to. In the periphery, a shadowy figure atop the manor roof disappeared fully into the darkness.

"Maybe all you need to know," Gordon said, "is that there are a thousand inmates in Blackgate Prison as a direct result of the Dent Act. These are violent criminals, essential cogs in the organized crime machine that terrorized Gotham for so long. Maybe for now all I should say about Harvey Dent's death is this — it has not been for nothing."

The applause resonated in his ears but it hardly meant anything good to him.

He reached his seat once more, and the party around them continued in its unapologetically languorous manner. The band struck up a sultry tune and couples began to stream onto the vast wooden dance floor in the center of the lawn. He risked a furtive glance at his…could he call her a date? It made him want to snort with self-deprecation. She seemed to sense that something was amiss before he turned to Foley.

"I'm very close to calling it a night, actually. But I've got one more task to accomplish before the evening is over."

Foley raised an eyebrow as his boss turned back to Giulia Sforza.

"Would you dance with me?"

There was a moment of tension when he felt that she might refuse. However, she donned a small smile and her eyes lowered, was she remembering the last time they'd attempted to dance?

She moved to stand and he led her to the center of the floor. Surprisingly, there was no awkward fumbling and they fell into step without much difficulty. It was a slower song, a jazz piece with a thrumming rhythm. One of her hands rested on his shoulder, the other was clasped in his own. He kept an arm wrapped around her waist, and he found that he wanted to tug off her cape so he could stroke her skin. But that would mean baring her skin for all the other men to see. That just wouldn't do. He hadn't noticed that she'd moved closer.

"You looked troubled, just now." She said quietly, her lips near his ear.

The closer contact she initiated was met by a reflexive tightening of his grip on her lower back. He gave in to his impulse, allowing his hand to subtly brush beneath her cape, tentatively feeling the warmth of her. He wondered if she'd draw back or rebuke him for daring. She only sighed deeply, melting further into him.

The moment robbed him of any possible speech he could make. His silence seemed to speak volumes to her.

"You're not going to tell me what's on your mind?"

"I…I can't. Not here at any rate."

She didn't say anything after he spoke, but he knew her sense of perception was not going to let him escape that easily. For eight years, he hadn't told a single soul. What if…what if she could bear this terrible secret with him? The temptation to confide in her was overwhelming No, he could not. She was the reason he couldn't give his intended speech tonight. There were still things to be done. There was no use in trying to tempt fate before settling the score.

"While you were up there, I saw Miranda but she's embroiled in what looks like an interesting conversation with some film producers on the far side of the lawn. I'm going to talk to her, alone."

"Alright. Remember that there's something she and Daggett are hiding. We need to know what that is," He made sure to whisper softly in case someone was listening. Jim looked down into her eyes as she straightened up to look at him. It was one of her signature neutral expressions. He was learning to become accustomed to them.

"Where will you be?" She asked.

"I'll wait for you at the bar. When you're done, come find me. I'll look out for you and try to keep an eye on Daggett."

They continued to dance slowly without further conversation, swaying together with an effortless sort of partnership that belied the length of their acquaintance. All the while his hand traced patterns on her petal soft skin beneath her cape.

From the open bar, Foley and the congressman observed them.

"They're awfully cozy, aren't they?" Gilly mused, nursing a half drank tumbler of whiskey.

"I didn't even know they knew each other 'til tonight."

"He's got some nerve, parading her around while the wife's at home with their kids. Does Mrs. Gordon know her husband's playing around?"

"No," Foley replied ambiguously. "She took the kids and moved to Cleveland years ago. He never really made time for them because of his work. As I understand it, it was the prime reason for their split."

"He doesn't exactly look devastated. And look at her! She's a dark horse. Never would have guessed that beneath all of that doe-eyed benevolence was a ravishing temptress with the way she ran rings around John Daggett earlier. I'd say her husband was a fool to let her go."

Foley glanced sidelong at the slightly more than inebriated congressman who was notorious for his own infidelity. No doubt, he wouldn't mind traipsing after la bella Sforza either.

"He does miss his family though. There's been a certain amount of crankiness about him. He used to be an easygoing sort of guy." Foley remarked as he took a sip of his own drink.

"Well, he'll have plenty of time for visits soon." Gilly lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned in toward the younger man. "Mayor's dumping him in the spring."

"Really?" Foley was caught off guard by the revelation — or at least bothered pretending to be. "He's a hero."

"War hero," Gilly said. "This is peacetime." He poked Foley in the chest. "Stay smart, the job's yours."

The song came to its inevitable conclusion and the couples on the dance floor stopped to applaud the band. Gordon and Mrs. Sforza stilled their movement, suddenly conscious of the scrutiny heaped upon them. He knew what it looked like to the others: a moment between two people with a burgeoning relationship, their body language hinting at something far more intimate than what was actually going on. They would play into it, deflecting suspicion by obliging society's assumption. She smiled up at him, seeming to understand, as she took two steps back and disentangled herself from his arms.

She took a moment to look around, seeking the figure of her friend where she last spotted the elusive Ms. Tate.

"I'll see you later," murmured Giulia, starting to move past him.

He nodded, turning to see her leave the dance floor before heading to the bar as they agreed he would. Since the dancing had been temporarily paused as the band took a break, the bar was quite populated and Gordon found himself approaching Gilly and Foley, who looked cozy as two peas in an obnoxiously intoxicated pod.

"Scotch please," Gordon told the bartender who handed him a glass of it while hardly missing a beat.

He watched Giulia, now talking to Ms. Tate quite a long way away from where he was. He saw Ms. Tate's arm gesture behind her, her thumb pointing toward the Manor. Next thing he knew, she and Giulia were walking together up the brick path that led to the Manor's side entrance. He wondered if they were retreating somewhere private to talk about things so dark that they could only be revealed in a place as dismal as resplendent but eerie Wayne Manor. He promised her he'd look out for her, and the remark she made about him using her as bait suddenly ran uncomfortably true. He'd been in situations like this before as an officer. There was just something different about her, and he hated that she had the ability to make everything feel so personal, even if it was fulfilling her promise to dance with him…even if it was only for the sake of a legitimate cover.

Gilly's voice rang through out of the fuzzy background noise. Gordon felt the congressman's presence at his side.

"Ever lay eyes on Wayne at one of these things?" Gilly asked rambunctiously. Like Gordon was being asked to prove a point Gilly made in an argument Gordon wasn't otherwise privy to.

Before he could answer, he was cut off by another familiar voice.

"No one has. Not in years." Foley had joined them. It was like a goddamn reunion suddenly, Gordon thought uncharitably as he struggled to surreptitiously keep watch on Giulia's progress up the path. The women rounded a corner, disappearing behind a massive pillar and completely leaving his line of sight.

Gordon turned his full attention to his companions. He saw Gilly perk up when an attractive waitress strode by with a plate of food. He grabbed at her rudely, causing both Foley and Gordon to inwardly cringe.

"Hey sweetheart, not so fast with the chow!" The congressman cried.

The waitress hid her anger with a polite yet strained smile. She held the silver plate up.

"Shrimp balls?"

Gordon almost snorted with laughter into his whiskey. Gilly was undeterred. The man even chewed lewdly. The poor waitress hurried away, Gilly gazing after her.

Gordon turned to face Foley at his left side.

"Are the second shift reports in?" Gordon asked.

"On your desk," Foley assured him. "But you should put in more time with the mayor."

Gordon wanted to roll his eyes, "That's your department."

He began to walk away, in the general direction of the Manor gardens where he could keep a convenient distance from Giulia in the event that something went wrong. He wasn't quite out of earshot when he heard Gilly speak to Foley in what he thought was a suitable volume for a private conversation but his blood alcohol content ensured otherwise.

"Has he _seen_ the crime stats?" The congressman asked sarcastically.

"He goes by his gut, and it continues to bother him, no matter what the numbers say." Came Foley's reply.

Jim could care less what they thought when he had a task as important as keeping his accomplice, so to speak, safe as she willingly tread into dark waters.

* * *

Giulia, meanwhile, was accompanying her friend into the manor to try and get an audience, so to speak, with Bruce Wayne. It had been quite a while since she'd last seen Miranda in person due to their busy and frequently overlapping schedules. Night had fallen over the city by now, there were no lingering hints of dusk. Crickets chirped happily as they made their way toward the servers' entrance.

"I had a very strange conversation with Commissioner Gordon the other day." Miranda Tate remarked, gazing ahead at the ground in case there was a loose rock she might trip over.

"I know. Miranda, I have to ask you, what on earth are you doing with the likes of John Daggett?"

"We're collaborating on a city cleanup project, and believe me, that is the full extent of our relationship if you can even call it that."

Giulia hardly missed a beat. She could sense, now more than ever, that her friend was lying to her. She had the burning desire to know the truth, so she tugged on Miranda's arm as soon as they stepped into the darkened foyer of the Manor. There weren't any servants around. The checkered marble floors, unlit chandelier and somber walls were their only audience.

"_Tell me_." She spoke those two words with the desperation that suddenly filled her.

"Do you believe I was a part of this sordid thing?"

Giulia looked at the woman she once thought of as almost a sister and saw nothing that could have indicated guilt. Agitation, yes, but then wouldn't anyone be agitated if they were accused of being a conspirator in a murder plot? Miranda's eyes shone in the dim light of the hall, yearning for Giulia to drop the subject and take her at her word.

"I don't know what to think. I thought that your partnership with Daggett would mean that you've overheard or seen _something_ that would explain this madness. You don't happen to know if he's ever…talked to Alessandro or video-conferenced with him?"

Miranda shook her head negatively.

"Once this is over in a month, I won't be renewing any sort of agreement with him, I promise you that. Besides, why is the Commissioner sending you to do amateur sleuthing? Shouldn't he be officially investigating instead of going around making personal calls?"

"I didn't want to make a fuss. He seems to prefer it this way as well." Giulia admitted quietly.

Both women were slightly startled by the sound of footsteps at the door. It was an older man dressed impeccably in a pristine suit, with an inquisitive look on his face.

"Good evening, Ms. Tate," The man said, his English accent heavy, "How may I help you this evening?"

"Alfred," Miranda called out in friendly greeting. She motioned toward Giulia. "This is my friend Giulia Sforza. She and I were just doing a little catching up. I wonder if I might speak with Mr. Wayne by any chance?"

"Give me just one moment, Miss." With a courteous nod and smile at Giulia, the butler walked up the vast staircase to find the recluse who occupied the upper floors.

"Why do you want to see him, anyway?" Giulia inquired.

"I want him to sign on as an investor in my project. The rate of construction that the project requires isn't sustainable for longer than a few months and we're reaching the stage where we need to accumulate more capital."

"Don't you mean _our_ project?" It was the second time that voice had butted into a private conversation. Giulia knew who it was even though her back was turned. Miranda's expression confirmed it, and Giulia felt her heart starting to pound. Suddenly the hall felt a bit ominous despite Miranda's presence next to her. She thought of Gordon, maybe he was on his way since he was supposed to be keeping track of Daggett.

"John, you have a knack for turning up at the most inopportune times." Miranda said with a note of false sweetness as she moved forward past Giulia to confront the man.

"You wound me, Miranda. Maybe I wanted a word with Mr. Wayne myself, and we both happened to be here at the same time."

"I don't believe in coincidence. So I think you meant to follow us."

Daggett flicked his beady eyes in Giulia's direction, causing her skin to crawl.

"Maybe I did."

Thankfully, Alfred's footsteps could be heard coming down the staircase and all three of them peered up to see him with a faintly apologetic look on his face.

"I'm sorry Ms. Tate, I tried but he won't see you." The butler said, curiously looking at Giulia and now the added presence of John Daggett.

"You know you mustn't take it personally. Everyone knows that Wayne's holed up in there with eight inch nails, peeing into Mason jars," He drawled flippantly before addressing Alfred specifically, "It's very good to let us on the grounds."

"If you would return to the party soon, I would appreciate it as I must close this entrance while the night winds down." Said Alfred firmly, clearly wanting them to carry on their tête-à-tête elsewhere.

"Certainly." Daggett replied with a stare that urged the butler to quit their presence so they might resume their talk.

When Alfred was gone, Giulia felt a prickle of potent fear rise up through her spine.

"Why are you wasting your time trying to talk to a man who threw away your investment on some 'Save-the-World' vanity project?" He laughed before taking a sip of the drink he'd brought with him.

"I could try explaining that a Save-the-World project, vain or not, is worth investing in. There's always room for a fresh start, don't you think John? I rather thought that our partnership might have shown you that but perhaps I assume too much. So why waste my time indeed? Come, Giulia, let's get some fresh air."

Before either of them could take a single step, Daggett reached out with his free hand and grasped Giulia by the elbow. His grip was strong, unyielding, but she refused to show him her fear.

"I heard the opening for _Giselle_ was fantastic. I'm so sorry that I missed your last performance."

The careful wording wasn't lost upon her, and the look on her face must have told him that his words had hit their target.

"That wasn't supposed to be my last performance, John, not if I can help it." She murmured, the significance of her statement no longer referring to her performance itself but to something far greater than that.

She gave a strong tug and freed her arm, walking swiftly away and out the door without even checking to see if Miranda was following. She hurried down the garden path as fast as her shoes and gown allowed her, oblivious to other partygoers who looked at her oddly. She kept walking, almost breaking into a slow jog when she bumped straight into an intercepting body after passing the rose bushes.

She was trembling when she felt gentle hands steady her by her upper arms, and a familiar scent wash over her. Aftershave and crisp starch on a freshly ironed shirt. Somehow she knew that she wasn't in any mortal peril, that she could trust these hands. She looked up, it was Jim Gordon. Her heart swooped in relief, or even something else that she didn't want to pick apart and analyze, that even in this state she was glad to be near him.

"Are you alright?" He asked quietly, with far more concern than she was used to from anyone.

She didn't think twice about her answer, nor was she surprised by the quiver in her voice.

"Get me out of here."

* * *

Gordon saw Daggett making his way toward the Manor after Giulia and Ms. Tate had rounded the corner. He stood from the bar, intending to follow but loathe to spook Daggett. He decided on waiting just outside the entrance, in the garden behind some of the rose bushes.

It was a tense twenty minutes before there was any sign of movement. The party continued on, though it was clear that more and more people were getting ready to call it a night. He heard the unmistakable clack of high heels, at a pace more rapid than was probably safe for the wearer.

He caught her before she could stumble and felt her shaking. If he was at all impressed by her emotional fortitude, he was now shocked to feel her losing control. He would find out what happened inside the manor later, right now she needed to focus on calming down. Miranda Tate and John Daggett must have still been inside.

At her simple demand, Gordon tucked her arm within his and began to walk toward the gate where he knew Blake was stationed.

"I'll call you when you're rested. Thank you for agreeing to do this." Though he regretted her current distress, he really was glad she came with him.

She shook her head. "At least…at least I fulfilled my promise to dance with you."

Before he could anticipate her action, she stopped walking and tugged him toward her, planting a brief kiss on his cheek. He felt her hand tighten on his forearm, even through the layers of his jacket and dress shirt. He wanted to pull her closer, and instead of her lips on his cheek, he wanted to feel them pressed against his own, open, sweet, intoxicating.

They pulled apart. He wondered if she wanted to know what it would be like to kiss him, in private where they could just be two people together. It was hard to tell, it might have been a trick of the dim lamp light that made her eyes reflect the warmth he knew was in his own.

"Officer Blake will drive you home. I have a few things I need to take care of at the station." His voice was hoarse, like it had gone a long time unused.

"Good night, Jim."

He watched her walk away with the younger man, wondering how many more times he'd let her walk away from him before he'd completely give in to his desire. She slipped into the back of the squad car. After he shut the door, Blake jogged over to Gordon.

"You should talk to Foley, he just got a call from Senator Gilly's wife. He was supposed to have been home about an hour ago and she's worried he hit the booze a little too hard." The rookie kept his voice low so no one could overhear.

"I will. Thank you John." He said, in a moment of sincerity.

"Don't mention it."

* * *

The period between getting out of Officer Blake's car and leaving for work the following morning was a hazy memory. She managed to go through her normal routine of bathing, dressing and eating the minimum amount of food that would sustain her for the day.

She felt hollow. Daggett hadn't explicitly said so, but she could read between the lines. He told her to her face that she was meant to die, sooner or later, she was supposed to die, and likely by his hand.

What could she do in the meantime? Life, with its merciless continuity, rolled right along whether she wanted it to or not. So she carried on calmly as she'd always done. After all, weren't all humans born to die? She tried to remember a time when she wasn't so cynical. It was hard to think that it had only been fifteen hours since she arrived home from the Wayne Foundation event. It had been a waste of time in the respect that they were not a single step closer to uncovering the reason why a hit was taken out on her. She slept not at all, but not for lack of trying. Tossing and turning in the dark, the sensation of the Commissioner's cheek beneath her lips wouldn't leave her alone. Her cheeks burned at the memory of her audacity. Her actions in the aftermath of such immense fright were probably inappropriate, though she found that she wished she'd been bolder if only to see what he'd do in response. His eyes were smoldering when she stepped back. It both scared and enticed her, that such a tiny gesture could ignite his ardor.

His continued assistance baffled her. She knew that he had far more important things to do than ask her out to dinner, which was essentially what the night was. She couldn't suppress the burst of heady exuberance that briefly shot through her when she considered that it might have been a pretense to see her. Clearly, he was a good man. He respected her deeply; she'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to know it. The thought that he was attracted to her simultaneously thrilled and frightened her. In the plan she drew for her future, another man never factored into the big picture.

He was unintentionally ensuring the dissolution of those best laid plans, and its inevitability terrified her.

The way he caught her after she bolted from Daggett and Miranda told her more about him than had any spoken interchange between them thus far. There was something about the man that made her want to throw her arms around him and never let go. As jaded as his career might have made him, that barely perceptible pain in his eyes called out to her. She could've imagined it, but she felt in her heart of hearts that she could ease it. To bring someone happiness was no small feat, how tempting it was to imagine being able to make Jim Gordon smile.

In the morning, she turned on her TV while getting ready for the day and was immediately greeted by a breaking news report, that Congressman Byron Gilly was reported missing by his wife. There was a massive search underway and the news anchor intoned a serious plea to any with relevant information of the congressman's whereabouts to place a call to GCPD's Major Crimes Unit. This was followed by a press release delivered by none other than the man who increasingly dominated her thoughts. She stopped applying her makeup at that, in lieu of moving to stand in front of the monitor. She watched him, the familiar lines of his face, his moustache, his square framed glasses and slightly graying hair. He wasn't an extremely handsome man.

That wasn't what she valued the most, she wasn't interested in vanity. There was something more to his physicality that she appreciated. The way he carried himself, the breadth of his shoulders, showed he was a strong man who probably knew more of sadness in life than anything else and instead of bowing to the adversity he faced, he overcame it. She'd studied body language all her life, she breathed and dreamed of the precision of movement. James Gordon, by this account alone, seemed to be one of the most formidable people she'd ever seen.

She hardly knew anything concrete about him. Only that he was a solemn man, one with a history not for the faint of heart. A man with a family, children, an ex-wife. A world-weary man with an occasional irascible temper. Who knew if he was genuinely interested in experiencing any of those things with anyone else, if the scars of his history would let him.

The larger question in her mind was if anything would ever come of it. She wasn't sure if the pursuit of a relationship with him was wise. Of course, she had a tendency to get several steps ahead of herself so maybe nothing further_ would_ arise between them even if she tried. What if she attempted to invite him to her house for dinner again? Would she receive a different answer?

She didn't know. And she knew, in all seriousness, that she probably wouldn't try again. If she ever did, she would do it wholeheartedly with the same expectation of her partner. For now though, it would be best to let things lie.

For now, she had work to do.

After all, Giulia still maintained a busy schedule as an assistant professor at Gotham State. There happened to be a monthly faculty meeting scheduled for that Thursday evening, the very first of the academic year. Her colleagues from the Arts Department often bemoaned the necessity of coming together and reporting to the Department Chair. The fall quarter had hardly begun so there was nothing much to tell in terms of student performance. The most they would do was introduce the new hires and review the content of each of their syllabi, as well as the new learning objectives for arts midterms. Midterms for arts students were markedly different from their peers in the sciences and humanities, which was part of what Giulia loved about the university—that diversity of study that permeated the little academic bubble in the middle of the city.

The Arts program finally had a chance to flourish over the past eight years, attracting talented students from across the country thanks to the drop in crime and violence. It made the campus a vibrant place, since it had always been better known for its scientific achievements and rather notorious alumni including Dr. Jonathan Crane.

The voice of the Department Chair cut through her inner thoughts. Giulia straightened her posture subtly in order to focus more intently. The woman on her right, an Ancient Greek Theatre professor, tossed her a sharp look. It seemed her colleague recognized the glazed-over look on Giulia's face, probably from catching one too many a student dozing off during class.

She didn't really click, so to speak, with any of the other professors. This wasn't something that overly concerned her; she knew that they gossiped about her and the amount of money she contributed as an endowment to the university. She was polite and courteous when spoken to, but she rarely made an effort to make friends.

Today was no different. When Professor Thomas Anderson adjourned the meeting, Giulia rose to her feet and promptly exited the room, leaving behind the buzzing of voices that steadily grew in pitch and volume.

She walked contentedly, feeling safe in this haven of stereotypical academia. The entire building was a thing of antiquity; it held its own appeal. She walked through the hallways where glass case displays held photographs of students who'd gone on to become celebrated dancers and thespians, some who'd moved onto graduate study in order to become teachers.

In her first lecture, she introduced the evolution of ballet starting in the seventeenth century in France. She intended to teach the further refinement of the style of dance in Italy, Russia, and America. It could be said that she enjoyed teaching the history as well as the art itself. It didn't make sense to master one without the other. Rounding a corner, she entered the lobby of the faculty wing. There were a couple of students milling around, waiting to talk to an advisor or something similar. She smiled at them but they weren't any of hers that she recognized yet.

Her office was in an unremarkable location, in the middle of a row of identical ones. She reached into her cardigan pocket for her key to unlock the door. She frowned when she noticed that it wasn't locked, even though she was sure that she'd secured it when she left. Stepping inside, she never had a chance before she was tugged roughly forward to see a face she never thought she'd see again.

"What the hell are you _doing here?!"_

The door clicked shut, effectively blocking her escape. She was shoved into her office chair, swiveling a bit with the force used to move her. Her phone was secure in her pocket, and the Commissioner's number was on speed dial. It was no use now, though. She was cornered. Staring in shock at her assailant, she wondered if this was to be the way she met her end, if this is what Daggett had planned for her all along—the pain of betrayal so deep it felt like a slow knife, ripping through her mind and soul without remorse.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

First off- HAPPY HALLOWEEN! :D

My first cliffhanger ever! Hope you guys don't hate me too much. Please leave a review and tell me what you think. (Even if it's to tell me you hate me for leaving you with a cliffie, hehe) I'm sorry as well about the long-ish wait that this chapter took. I suddenly became very busy and didn't want to sacrifice quality for the sake of rushing to post. Please let me know what you think! It makes the process all the more rewarding. :)


	6. Through the fire and rain

***Strong Language ahead!**

**Ch. 6 **

"_Keep your voice down!" _He hissed emphatically.

Her first reactions were to rear back and swing a sharp right hook to his face. She nearly landed a blow but he caught her fist before it could hit his jaw. She yelped a little when his grip became brutal and she felt her knuckles crack from the pressure. He released her, but only when he was convinced she wouldn't try to hit him again.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing? Are you here to do the deed yourself? John failed you so you're here to do what you should have done all along?" She shouted. She knew no one else was in the department, they all tended to go across the street for coffee together immediately after faculty meetings. She was the only one who instead chose to go back to her office. She wondered if the students out in the lobby could hear her.

"Well? Why are you here? You're supposed to be in Capri with Melanie, or Anastasia or whatever your flavor of the month's name happens to be!" She goaded him while trying to think of ways to put distance between them.

Heart racing, Giulia stared in bewildered fury at her husband, who was somehow miraculously standing in front of her in her office. His larger hands kept her forearms pinned to her chair, and his face was far too close for comfort. He looked deranged, he sported a five-o-clock shadow and his suit was rumpled. For a well-groomed man who spent all of his life looking nothing less than immaculate, she was shocked to find him like this; with haunted eyes and razor thin cheekbones.

"Alessandro, why are you here?" She asked again, this time in Italian.

His eyebrows drew up together and signaled his distress. Shocking her further, he really looked like he was about to cry. It had been years since she'd seen him break down like this in front of her, the only difference was she felt absolutely no pity for him. She took advantage of her still-free legs and delivered a mean kick to his shin. He grunted in pain but kept holding her tightly.

"I _wasn't_ the one trying to kill you, you have to believe me, it was all John and his insane henchman—the most goddamn idiotic plan I have ever heard and it's all getting away from him, he's not _in control anymore_, maybe he never was_—"_

Her brain struggled to process all of what he was whispering, disbelief warred with wariness. He continued to babble in their native language.

"—And the only reason why I called the police to accuse you was so that they would look, and they would _see _and know that something was wrong…Something SO wrong with this city, and they love you, they all fucking worship you so you'd be _protected_ if I accused you. Because you can do no wrong, can you, my dear? My lovely Giulia, my sweet, sweet Giulia," His voice was laced with thick sarcasm. Then, as his mercurial temper shifted, tears started to roll down his cheeks and he began to sob quietly. "So they'd know…so they'd _know."_

"Know what?" She almost screamed, though her confusion held her in check. Whatever was wrong that affected her stoic husband in this way, rendering him vulnerable to the point of near insanity, was what she and Gordon had been attempting to discover.

Alessandro took several shaky breaths, and he loosened his bruising grip on her arms, easing up a little.

"His name is Bane."

Giulia restrained herself from asking anything further, for fear of setting him off again. He looked like he was beginning to come back to himself. She wondered how he made it into the main campus of the university looking like a madman and it would've been an amusing thought for anyone else, but it wasn't. He looked gaunt, fragile. So different from the man she'd married fourteen years ago.

"I've been trying to get back to the city for weeks but obviously there's a warrant out for my arrest here. I was able to secure false papers and fly in with a borrowed private plane. I've been moving from hotel to hotel every night. I was there at Vauxhall when you danced and I tried to get to you in your dressing room but the Commissioner was there. I had to warn you, Giulia, about what's going to happen."

Again, she was silent. This entire encounter was ridiculously surreal.

"Bane—" He spat the name, "—didn't want any loose ends left. So he asked John who knew about the money that was going toward the projects. After John told him, Bane was going to…eliminate all of those loose ends. Bane interrogated me, since I was the first investor in John's and Miranda's project, and outside of that circle, you were the only other one who _knew. _I begged John not to let Bane do it and I thought he talked him down. I even threatened to withhold John's money. I thought it worked. I didn't know John would give the task to his Stryver and some second-rate thugs._"_

"I don't know anything about their plans! Why would this Bane want me dead?"

"Whatever you say now, they won't take any chances. That's what you don't want to stay here to find out. I need you to leave the city. Go to your family home in Ajaccio, it's been years since you've been back to Corsica."

She surveyed his demeanor. His eyes were beseeching, his face as open as it had been when he was a young man courting her, it was that face that tricked her into the worst decision of her life and yet here he was, seemingly concerned for her welfare.

_Afraid._

He was truly afraid, and like a contagion she felt his fear seep into her bones.

"Why are you taking all this trouble? When all these years you've treated me as something lower than the dirt beneath your shoe?" She allowed some of the pain he'd inflicted on her to show, her voice cracked with her roiling emotions.

"You were far more than I ever deserved." He said flatly, some of the familiar blankness returning to his blue eyes.

"Then let me go, and I'll think about what you've told me."

"NO! You need to get on a plane, tomorrow if possible."

"I am not yours to command, Alessandro, I haven't been for a decade and I'm certainly not going to be now even if you've just groveled on your knees. If I choose to stay here with my city, in my own home, then it's up to my discretion."

He stood up straight, smoothing his longer hair back out of his face.

"John's put a hit out on me too. Bane will kill me if he finds out I'm back in the city. The power's gone to John's head. He's reached too high, trying to acquire Wayne Enterprises and taking over the city and this is going to implode on him. He doesn't see what's going to happen, not like I can. He was always a myopic son of a bitch." Alessandro's tone grew distant, like he was getting lost in memories she wasn't privy to.

"Tell me what they're planning. If they're already convinced that I know then you might as well tell me and I can see that the information gets to the authorities."

He barked out a harsh laugh, and she rankled at being treated like a naïve simpleton.

"Do you really think those Gotham police officers are a match for Bane's men? No one can stop that kind of brute force. They're going to take over the city and make people like you and I atone for our excesses. Like Robespierre and the guillotine, they will come for us, they WILL have our blood."

Her eyes widened in shock.

"How? How will they do it?"

This was evidently something he wasn't going to answer.

"If you're wise, you'd do as I say."

So they were back to this. He expected her to obey-as if she'd ever bowed to his demands before. She certainly wasn't going to start now, and she wasn't thoroughly persuaded from the notion that her husband had gone insane and was spouting utter nonsense from the depths of his depraved mind.

Giulia needed desperately to be alone, and her fingers quivered with the desire to grab her phone and call the emergency number she'd programmed into speed dial.

"I married you, so clearly I'm not. Now, I want you to _get the fuck out of my office." _She hissed without compunction, switching to English.

He glared at her one last time before stumbling toward the door and exiting, silently as he must've entered.

This was decidedly the most bizarre and frightening month of her life. She took several calming breaths and then dialed the number, anxiously hoping he'd be there, like he promised…Several rings later, she encountered an automated voice directing her to leave her message after the beat. She steeled herself in spite of her rising hysteria.

"_Jim…Jim I've just had extremely disturbing news. I don't know what to do. I hope…I hope you're there. Call me back as soon as you can."_

Giulia waited until she ended the call and put her phone on her desk in front of her before she dissolved into tears, the impact of those five minutes finally engulfing her.

* * *

November was swiftly approaching, bringing with it colder weather and biting winds that reminded Jim of Chicago. He'd taken to bundling up with pullover sweaters and collared shirts, with either a coat and scarf or just his GCPD jacket. At that particular moment, he was sitting up on the roof of GCPD headquarters. He stared out at the skyline, buildings set aglow by lights of all kinds.

The defunct Batsignal remained as it had for years, a stark reminder of the vigilante's sacrifice. Gordon retained his habit of waiting by the ledge where so many conversations had taken place under the cover of night. He was deep in remembrances of times long past when he heard the door to the stairwell abruptly open. He didn't jump—nerves of steel allowed him that much.

Footsteps preceded the voice that rang out above the distant din of traffic on the streets below.

"Sir, there's still no update on the Congressman's whereabouts. We've had a couple of well-meaning calls, a couple of prank ones too on the hotline but other than that everyone's still searching. The FBI's on it too."

The Commissioner moved away from the ledge where he was leaning and faced his young protégée, appearing slightly amused.

"The past two days are the most excitement that's graced MCU in a while."

Both men thought of the stony-faced feds working alongside annoyed city cops and knew that both types of officers were probably thrilled at the chance to actually do something that they were trained for.

"Hopefully he just got lost somewhere, and he'll turn up from some place he forgot he crashed in after the Wayne Foundation." Blake said with measured flippancy, "If this happened before you and Dent cleaned up the streets as good as you did, there'd be a lot more panic."

Gordon chuffed out a half hearted laugh as his eyes inadvertently landed on the Batsignal. Blake caught on and turned his own gaze upon the broken beacon.

"The brother of that kid from the other day," Gordon didn't have to guess which kid Blake was referring to, from the pensive look on the young man's face, "was drawing bats on a bench with chalk while I talked to him. Asked me if _he's_ coming back."

"What did you say?" Jim asked, curious in spite of himself.

"That I didn't know." Blake stuck his hands in his pockets as he stepped nearer to his boss and the Batsignal. He was in a contemplative mood, as the horrific actions of one once regarded as a hero of Gotham had always astounded him. Gordon felt the tension that always arose when the truth in his head longed to escape. This was a conversation that he'd put off as long as possible, especially with Blake.

"The last confirmed sighting of the Batman…he murders those people, takes down two SWAT teams, breaks Dent's neck, and then…just vanishes? It just doesn't add up, boss."

"What are you getting at, rookie?"

"Don't you wanna know who he was?"

Gordon bristled goodnaturedly. This couldn't go any further, not tonight. He began to walk toward the stairwell, hardly pausing to look back.

"I know exactly who he was. He was the Batman."

"One day, that explanation is not gonna fly with me."

Gordon merely stared Blake down until the younger man shifted his weight, finally ready to back off the subject.

"So did you or Mrs. Sforza find anything out at the Harvey Dent Dinner?"

"I haven't gotten to talk to her yet. Something did happen, from the way she reacted before I sent her home."

"She looked pretty shook up. Wouldn't say a single word to me the whole way back to her place."

The Commissioner looked up at that, guilt steeling across his face.

"When this is resolved," Gordon motioned with a sweep of his arms, "I'll give her a call. Her designated patrol is still making rounds up and down her street, isn't he?"

"Yeah, boss. But apparently, the officer on duty says she tends to give them hell when she chooses to go out to run around the city. It's almost impossible to keep up with her, and she varies her routes unpredictably."

This made Gordon feel better. If his officers had a hard time keeping up with her, she could have a decent chance to outrun any pursuers. And then, Blake turned his head slightly away with a wry grin on his face as if he were trying to smother a laugh. Gordon picked up on it.

"Something funny?"

"It was my shift this morning, and I was in an unmarked car, parked across the street from her brownstone. She leaves for the university around seven thirty in the morning, either walks to the train or takes her bike. This morning though, she comes down the stairs, crosses the street and yanks open the passenger door of the car. She says, "You might as well take me to work."" The Commissioner looked vaguely pleased at the anecdote. "You need to brush up on your surveillance skills—" Gordon said teasingly while he began to make his way back to the stairwell.

"Yeah either that or you should hire her." Blake quipped.

"Let's go see what we can do about the missing Congressman."

* * *

When they arrived back down at MCU, the office was a flurry of frenetic police activity. At every desk was a group of cops all engaged in conversations which vaguely reached Gordon's ears. This was all for the missing congressman. Gordon regretted the sarcastic aside he'd had in mind when Foley informed him of the situation. This was gravely serious. An elected public official missing could mean a litany of things, and in all of these scenarios they rarely emerged alive in a town like Gotham even in these days of peace.

"What's going on?" He barked, watching as several officers' heads snapped up and saw their Commissioner standing in the middle of the floor.

Lieutenant David Cornwell, the second shift commander, stepped forward. The man looked tense, as the Congressman's rescue operation was under his immediate supervision. Gordon knew the lieutenant viewed his job very seriously and he listened attentively while Cornwell dove straight into explaining the current situation. A SWAT team and ten GCPD officers had been dispatched to a seedy bar downtown where the congressman's cell phone was recorded as being recently—as in during the last fifteen minutes.

Blake listened too, and when he'd heard his orders, Cornwell dismissed him to leave with the reinforcements. Gordon watched as Blake jogged out with his peers, all dressed identically until no cop was distinguishable from another.

"When did the first wave of officers leave?"

"Just ten minutes ago, sir. I was on my way out as well. They've just reported that someone opened fire and it's turning into a fullbown fire fight."

"Go ahead, I'll meet you there."

"Yes, sir."

Cornwell continued his way out of PD and Jim hurried to his office to fetch some extra rounds of ammo. If he was going to leap into the fray, what he had on him wasn't gonna cut it. His blood rushed as he loaded his weapon and searched for his long unused holster in his desk drawer. He was getting old—he never used to be this anxious before.

Shoving all of that back, he paused for a moment, breathed in and exhaled.

He grabbed his communication unit and made his way to the subterranean garage of GCPD where he was able to catch the last squad car that was on its way to rescue the congressman.

The entire trip was remarkably quick as the streets were mostly deserted during these unholy hours. Just as the car pulled into an alley a safe distance from the scene of the gunfight, his comm unit chirped and Blake's voice rang out stating that they located the congressman but were after the assailants. Another officer's voice spoke clinically through the single channel that their comms were all tuned into.

"Man down, we got a shooter in the fire escape above the bar."

The smell of gunpowder was thick when he leapt out of the car and ran after the SWAT team. Gordon looked about the dismal alleyway and pulled the slide of his nine mil back. He assessed the situation, knowing that he had to take charge because this was his strength. He'd heard the snide remarks behind his back that he was a relic of Gotham's dark days but where were those people now when disaster struck? But he wasn't one to blame others for their shortcomings and he wasn't about to start now. They said he acted like they were still at war, well he didn't mind so much now when it was appropriate for the situation.

Jim Gordon ran forward shouting, "The manhole! Get DWP down here, you three with me, you two, go back and cover the next exit!"

The SWAT guys had lugged the metal covering off the sewer opening and down Gordon went, plunging into the filthy unknown after an unknown armed assassin.

He and his men trotted cautiously down the dim path, the only sound was made by the putrid running water and their breathing. Gordon held his gun crossed with his flashlight, feeling the adrenaline rush through his veins.

Out of nowhere shots rang out, the sounds bouncing off the walls of the narrow corridor. Jim immediately ran to take cover behind a wall of an upcoming corner. The SWAT guys fired immediately in lieu of finding cover. They had the armor for it, but Jim didn't even don a vest.

A searing wave of pure heat shoved Jim backward into the wall, a significant explosion of some kind. The SWAT men were all on the floor, probably dead. Jim compartmentalized his shock and pushed forward, turning the corner fully with his gun aimed in front of him for he didn't know if the assassin had been caught in the blast too.

Just when he took two steps forward, he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head. He pitched forward, dropping his gun and flashlight as he was picked up roughly by the arms and dragged further into the dank sewer tunnel. He'd have cursed if he wasn't so dazed. They'd hit him at precisely the place in a man's body where he's conscious of everything that's happening to him but unable to physically do anything about it. His legs felt disconnected from the rest of his body as he was dragged through a series of corridors until at last he was thrown down roughly upon his back.

The wind knocked out of him, he tried to get a look of his surroundings. There was indeed a massive construction project; there were scaffolds that were far too high to be safe for the young men working on them. There was a lot of noise, amplified by the tunnels' acoustics, but he couldn't quite tell what kind of work they were doing. Some dressed in rags held assault rifles that were likely illegally obtained; he even saw a young boy or two wielding weapons that were almost bigger than them. So this is what Daggett is trying so hard to hide, Gordon thought. He wondered if it would have been nearly as disastrous if he and Blake had actually come down to do their own exploration. As it was, he was incapacitated, for all intents and purposes, disarmed, and very, very alone.

He grew still when he detected a distinct machine-like breathing apparatus. A voice, not quite human, asked, "Why are you here?"

One of the punks who dragged him into the mess, literally, had the gall to deliver a kick to one of his legs.

"Answer him!"

Gordon groaned in pain and shifted his head from side to side to try and get a glimpse of the man with the horrid voice.

"I was asking you," The metallic voice rang out impatiently.

"It's the police commissioner," The punk stated stupidly.

Gordon heard a rustling sound and then heavy footsteps approach near to his head, followed by more of that atrocious breathing. He might have laughed if he had full command of his faculties, the other man sounded like Darth Vader from Star Wars. He realized this was when he should be scared of someone so sinister but his disjointed mind kept trying to merge the image of the caped villain with the raspy baritone that rang out in the dank room.

"And you brought him down here…?" Darth Vader drawled condescendingly.

"We didn't know what to do," Another voice, presumably his second attacker. "—we just thought—"

"Your weakness has cost the lives of three men."

The other man tried to defend his accomplice but only ended up on the receiving end of Darth Vader's wrath. The massive man gripped his throat and applied pressure with hardly any effort. Gordon watched in horror, yet he couldn't help but wondering if the man's superhuman strength was granted by the 'force' or not. Then the young man dropped to the floor as if he were boneless and Jim saw that he was dead.

"Search him, and then I'll kill you," The masked man said flatly to the remaining boy.

Gordon felt one of his attackers kneel beside him and go through his jacket pockets, locating only the rumpled remains of his Harvey Dent speech. He wished he'd remembered to burn it but it was too late to do anything about it now. With any luck, they'd never actually stop to read the damn thing. The masked man took it and moved to put it on the table behind him.

He acted on survival instinct and rolled with all his strength before his window of opportunity disappeared. He landed in the rushing water, but not before bullets were soon flying all around him.

It was when he'd reached the outflow at last that he realized he'd been hit. Someone caught him and was shouting at him, patting his face repeatedly until he was forced to cough up water. The pain engulfed him all of a sudden and he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't BREATHE…the darkness caught up with him but not before some words ran through his mind in that voice he knew so well…

"_I always knew you were incorruptible."_

* * *

Waking up not knowing where one had been sleeping was never a pleasant experience. His eyes flew open when he realized what had happened and a thousand questions shot through his mind. He cringed, perhaps that wasn't the best analogy considering how he ended up in this hospital room. Tenderly, he tried to shift so that he'd lie flat on his back.

"_Fucking_ hell-" He gasped.

Oh, that wasn't one of his better ideas. The long string of internal cursing that followed would have made his mother slap him across the face if she could've heard him.

As soon as he braced his muscles to move, white-hot pain jolted through him and stole his breath away. It stung all around the area of his ribs on his right side. He realized that even in his sleep he knew that lying on his right side would be best.

So he'd been shot, and someone had got to him just in time to save him from either drowning or bleeding out. He would have to remember to thank Blake for that, as he suspected Blake was his savior. He was fitted with an oxygen mask to make sure that he could breathe properly, which most likely meant that he sustained at least one rib injury and it had punctured his lung. This was his first work-related injury in eight years. Gordon forgot how excruciating the recovery process from a bullet wound was, especially when one wasn't young and resilient.

He could feel, through his most fundamental instincts that he was by himself. No one was waiting for him to awaken anxiously, no one who loved him was there holding a vigil at his bedside, so to speak. He was glad that Barb and the kids were away, that they didn't have to see him like this. He wondered if anyone called them to let them know. He hoped not, so they wouldn't come rushing over to see him during this unstable time. There was no telling what forces were lurking beneath the city from what he'd seen before he lost consciousness.

When he wasn't seeing stars anymore, he looked around but only moved his eyes. The other beds were devoid of all other patients. Must've been a perk of being a high ranking police official. Somehow, he found he really didn't want to be alone. He wondered how long it had been since that night in the sewers.

In retrospect, what he'd seen down there was intriguing. His memories of the masked man who breathed like Darth Vader only brought a grim sense of suspicion over him rather than the hilarity of his dazed state. He felt a sudden sense of urgency, to tell someone, ANYONE what he began to realize. Daggett was involved with Darth Vader—for lack of a name, Gordon dubbed him one from Star Wars—and they were changing the underground infrastructure for what could only be nefarious purposes.

What was going on outside and what was being done about it? Where was Blake? Blake needed to know. Or maybe he already did, and was acting on his knowledge…

Not knowing anything was driving him insane, even in the few short minutes since he woke up. He felt himself growing drowsy and knew that he had a couple of needles in his arm, probably pumping him full of painkillers. He shuddered to think that if he could still feel the pain even on a peripheral level, what the real damage to his body felt like without the drugs.

He lapsed in and out of a drug induced sleep, until the light streaming in from the windows fizzled out and night had fallen. He was startled into consciousness by the sound of one of the windows opening from the outside. A man in a ski mask entered and approached his bedside.

Gordon was essentially a sitting duck. If this man was sent to finish the job that those two incompetent criminals couldn't, Gordon knew he didn't have a chance as he could barely keep his eyes open much less defend himself against an attacker.

Once the masked man halted his advance and knelt down at Jim's bedside, a swift realization came over him. The eyes that glimmered through the holes of the crude mask were so familiar that Gordon knew he couldn't miss this chance. With great effort, he pulled the mask slightly away from his nose and mouth and tried to speak. His voice was raspy and his diaphragm ached with the effort but he knew with great conviction who the man was in front of him.

"We were in this together," Jim rasped, "Then you were gone."

"The Batman wasn't needed anymore," whispered the masked man, whose voice had lost its gruff power that Gordon remembered, "We won."

So his intuition was right. This man wasn't here to carry out a hit on him. This was the Batman in crude disguise. His message grew all the more urgent.

"Based on a lie. And now this evil rises where we tried to bury it. The Batman _has to come back."_

"What if he doesn't exist anymore?"

"He must…he…must," Gordon whispered with as much force as his damaged lungs would allow.

The Batman remained at his bedside, and while he was there, Gordon was suddenly gripped by the urgency to impart another equally important message. Her face was vivid in his mind. Not knowing where she was panicked him far more than he cared to admit.

"Sforza—Giulia… Sforza," He successfully bit out, trying to see through the dim light of the hospital room.

"The socialite?"

He could feel the shards of broken ribs pressing into tender flesh; even though he was well-supplied with painkillers the somatic sensation was enough to trigger his pain receptors. He knew he couldn't afford to let this chance go. The Batman's protection was no small thing and if Gordon could secure it for Giulia, this brief moment of discomfort was far more than worth it.

"Please, she's in _danger_…"

Gordon tried with all his might to stay awake but his eyes rolled back in his head as he was carried off into sleep once more. He vaguely felt a hand on his arm, patting him gently.

He slept for hours, all through the night thankfully. The light that streamed in through the windows the next morning woke him naturally, and he was chagrined to find his chirpy old nurse Gladys stroll into the room to pump him with liquid food and clean him up for the day. He bore her light hearted chatter with as much tolerance as he could muster, considering that he was in no shape to order anyone around.

When at last she was finished bathing him—another humiliation he'd not missed—Gordon noticed that on his bedside table was an arrangement of fresh white roses and carnations. He looked inquisitively at the nurse.

"I brought those in for you earlier this morning. My favorite so far of the past few days, she's brought you tulips and wildflowers but there's no question that the roses are the most beautiful. She's been waiting for two hours to see you." Something in her tone of voice irked him, as if she were doting upon a little boy. "And your visitor is a lovely lady indeed! I'll let her in now that you're awake."

So she'd been trying to get to him.

He tried to ease himself into a more presentable position, lying on one's side with half his face smushed into his pillow was hardly the way he wanted her to see him. He lay partly on his back but the pain rendered him almost completely immobile.

He heard her rapid footsteps against the linoleum floor and her rapid intake of breath.

"Jim! _Cosa stai facendo? Tu pari completamente scomodo_!_—"_

Giulia Sforza rushed to his side and helped him find a comfortable position again, uttering more half-hearted reprimands that his poor ear for languages couldn't keep up with. His breathing was a tad labored but he was indeed far more comfortable lying on his side than attempting to sit up. In spite of himself, the sight of her storming into his room and completely reverting to her flustered Italian compelled him to laugh. He forced himself to stop when his ribs protested.

She pulled up a chair to sit next to him and wrung her hands fretfully in her lap.

"Officer Blake told me he knew how to find you because you came through the same outflow where several of the other corpses also turned up. Just in time," She said with mild incredulity. "Thank god for his guesses or you might've ended up in a body bag instead of this hospital bed."

He raised his eyebrow at her.

"This is your idea of bedside manner?"

She didn't miss a beat.

"Well, I have brought you quite a lot of flowers, haven't I?"

"I think I want my regular nurse back," He teased gently. This sort of light hearted sparring was new ground for them, and he wanted to tread cautiously.

Even through his drug-addled haze, he was surprised when she raised her hand as if she was going to smack his arm.

"Hey, you can't hit an injured man. I've been shot, you know."

Her feigned ire dissipated at once, to be replaced by a charming upward quirk of the corners of her mouth. Had her eyes always been so intriguing? Their color seemed to change with the light, now they appeared hazel instead of grey.

"Could an old man trouble you for his glasses?" He asked gently, tossing a look at the bedside table where the aforementioned item rested.

She nodded and picked them up, leaning forward to put them on him comfortably.

"Now I can actually see you," He joked.

He took this chance to stare at her without worrying about unnerving her. She wasn't dressed up at all, her skin was completely devoid of any makeup. She just looked very pale and worried. Her hair was twisted into a haphazard bun and she wore a grey sweater that looked worn and slightly too big for her over black pants. Now she was staring back at him with tenderness he thought he could actually feel, more acutely than if she took his hand in hers to hold.

She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"How…are you?" He asked, genuinely wanting to know.

"I'm alright at the moment but I need to tell you something. Not now, only when you've rested more and have regained your control over your faculties."

"You make it sound like I'm a complete invalid," He grumbled with mock-childishness.

Again, that tender glance.

"You need to rest."

"Then why are you here, to torment me?"

She hesitated at that. Something in his tone was a little too raw to be taken for a casual joke.

"Do I torment you?"

The dizzying speed of this conversation and its thousand implications were more than he could handle at that moment in time though he was loathe to admit that she was right and he needed to rest. He felt tired; he wanted to pump more painkillers but was afraid to do so when she was so near him. There was no telling what he might say to keep her there.

Instead, he ignored her quiet question, hoping she would attribute his inability to concentrate to the pain he was in.

"How many days has it been since the Dent dinner?"

She blinked, concentrating. When he saw her exhale, he knew she was going to let this one go.

"About five."

"Five days?" He parroted back.

"I came to see you yesterday and the day before but the doctors have said you've been in and out of consciousness ever since they removed the shrapnel from your body."

He heard the tension in her voice, noting that she sounded hoarse, tired.

"Thank you for the flowers, my dear."

She looked startled by his use of the unexpected endearment. He, in turn, was taken aback by the way she reacted. She looked away helplessly and covered her mouth with her hand as if to physically stifle her cry. He wanted to reassure her but could only tighten his grip of her hands. He thought of Barbara and her quiet strength, how she took care of him after every scuffle and injury he sustained in the line of duty. Now Giulia was here before him, real, lovely, vibrant but sad. How he hated to see her so despairing, though her reaction warmed his heart more than he cared to acknowledge.

"Giulia, I'm gonna be okay." He said, feeling a little foolish since even he didn't know the full extent of his own injury, "This old body has more fight left in it than you may think."

Her expression calmed a little. She sniffed lightly and brought her free hand to stroke his hair, his forehead and then cheek. He fought not to lean into her touch for the sake of his pride.

"I'll come back to be with you on the days when I'm not lecturing."

Gordon closed his eyes briefly, comforted by her proximity. She was here, and he'd get better and get to the bottom of it all. But for now he felt content to lie there with her next to him.

"Would you like me to read you the newspaper? I've brought the last couple days' editions. Have they told you anything? Your colleagues, your men?"

He replied negatively, though he thought of his encounter with the Batman. She might think he was just rambling on about a dream he'd had from the morphine in his bloodstream. He'd have to wait until he healed more before he confided in her about that.

Gordon wondered if his ally had gotten a chance to investigate anything pertaining to the woman next to him, and if her safety was now indeed a priority because of it. He adamantly hoped so.

"No, I haven't… seen anyone from… outside other than you. I'd appreciate it if you could..."

"I'll start with Monday's," She told him.

He watched her unfold the paper and show him the front page, covered in pictures of the rescue operation of Congressman Byron Gilly. There in stark relief was the statesman, dressed in a tacky Hawaiian print shirt with an uncharacteristically dazed look on his face. He was being put into a stretcher, apparently having sustained a through and through gunshot wound in his thigh.

"Good thing they found him, or I'd be here for no good reason at all." Jim said with a hint of self deprecation.

She let that go unanswered except for the smirk on her face and continued reading. He learned that the explosion in the sewer had indeed killed the SWAT officers who'd accompanied him, and that he himself had been included among the injured list. It wasn't departmental policy to report on an incumbent commissioner but he figured that Gotham's media was practically baying for a good story. Foley had assumed control over all GCPD operations in his stead but he didn't need the paper to know that. Foley was capable—if all that being a Commissioner entailed was superficially smoothing plaster over a proverbial crack in a wall. The problem was finding out the hard way that the crack was easily concealed when it actually ran several feet deep.

The official line among all of the media was that a gas explosion had been the cause of the SWAT officers' demise. Gordon knew differently, however. He knew that there was something sinister lurking in the bowels of the city and the people running the stories knew to stay away from the danger of digging too deep, so to speak.

He needed to get back on the inside.

The rustling of the last paper folding back up broke his reverie. He'd listened with as much attention as he could while she was reading. He felt somewhat better oriented with current events at least. It was a truly thoughtful gesture on her part.

"You can barely sit up and you're already wondering when you can get back to it, aren't you?" Giulia asked without any hint of judgment. She merely sounded speculative, like she was objectively observing him.

He wondered if he measured up to her ideals. He wondered how long it would be before he fell off the pedestal she placed him on or before he stopped appearing incorruptible in her eyes. He didn't want it to be anytime soon, not when he felt like _this_ simply from watching her watching him. It was something he never anticipated he would feel again with someone other than his ex-wife.

He saw her withdraw slightly, crossing her arms in front of her body and looking briefly away. Did she see something in him that frightened her? He felt the question that he longed to ask stick in the back of his throat until it disappeared altogether in the trepid fear that she would leave him alone.

"I don't know if this is the right time to ask, but did you ever receive my message that I left the day of your shooting?"

He frowned. "What message?"

"I called you after something happened in my office at GSU and I was so overwhelmed that you were the first person I called but you weren't in headquarters at the time. So I left a message on your machine but by later that night you were en route to the hospital with injuries."

When he shook his head slowly from side to side, she drew in a breath to elaborate.

"My husband got into my office after I had a meeting and he told me something important about Daggett."

Gordon stared at her with shocked eyes.

"He's in Gotham?" He said with as much incredulousness as he could currently manage.

"Yes and there are hardly words to describe his mental state, I'd never seen him like that before. He looked…well, he looked crazy. Rambling in half-sentences, then lucid as either you or me. He kept telling me that I should leave the city before Daggett's men take over. Do you think that a realistic fear?"

"I don't know, at the moment I think anything could happen. But if he's here, he's gonna end up in Blackgate or Arkham whether he likes it or not."

Gordon knew this to be true, the Batman didn't take the information Gordon imparted lightly. He wondered if it would be comfort of her to know this, but then he thought maybe the certainty of knowing would have rather the opposite effect on her.

Against his will, his eyelids began to droop. Giulia noticed how fatigued he looked and she brooked no argument as she leaned forward to gently pull his glasses from his face and set them on the bedside table. She came back to him and perched herself on the mattress, so close that he wanted to move forward and absorb her warmth. He didn't dare to move, he wanted this to be on her terms.

So when she leaned forward and kissed his lips, it was all he could do but close his eyes and clasp her hand inside his own. He was captivated by her taste, her jasmine scented skin. When she pulled away, she kissed his cheek affectionately and squeezed his hand.

"I don't mean to torment you, you know." The woman murmured quietly.

So full of burgeoning happiness, he rose the back of her hand to his lips to plant a small kiss there, and he fervently hoped no one was about to burst through the door to spoil the moment.

"I know," He said, before she leaned forward and kissed him again.

**Author's Note:**

Whoah, it's been WAY too long since I last updated. For that I deeply apologize. I'm currently in the midst of final examinations, after which I'll have a grand three weeks to work on this story! Especially now since the DVD has been released. *maniacal grin* Which brings me to my next point…

I've decided I don't want to write anything that resembles a novelization too, too much so I'm not sure that I'm going to follow the movie exactly from here on out.

Please let me know what you think!


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